Righting Wrongs
by dogstar-ebony
Summary: 19 years is a long time to skip, and it's highly doubtful that our favourite trio did nothing but marry and have kids in that time. So, what DID they do? And what about all the forgotten characters? Chapter 20 now up. T for safety.
1. Some Unexpected Visitors

**~ Harry Potter and the Nineteen Lost Years ~**

**~ Chapter One - Some Unexpected Visitors ~ **

Monica Wilkins bent down for what seemed like the hundredth time today and scooped up a handful of brightly coloured pegs from the little sackcloth bag at her feet. Pausing in her actions, she wiped a browned hand across her sweating forehead before reaching up to clip the folded sheet onto the line that bisected the little garden. She swatted an insect that buzzed around her face, flapping at it with her free hand, but it persisted and finally she batted at it with both hands, sending the collection of pegs in her fingers tumbling to earth. Swearing loudly in frustration, she bent once more to pick them up.

"Wendell?" she called over her shoulder. Distantly within the house she heard the dim echoes of her husband's response. "Can you fill the watering can for me, please? The flowers are dying in this heat."

She didn't wait to hear Wendell's reply but smiled inwardly, resuming her actions. Wendell was a good man; he tried in his own way to help her out with the chores, as much as he grumbled whilst he did so. Ordinarily she wouldn't have asked him, but today felt different in a way Monica couldn't quite put her finger on. The air around her seemed to hum with expectancy, and she found herself constantly glancing absent-mindedly at the little gate to the back garden, as if there were something there that she could sense but couldn't quite see. It was the strangest sensation, but she felt as though she were being watched.

Shrugging off the odd feeling, Monica reached up once more, straining to clip the crumpled T-shirt to the line. As she did so her shirt, loose in the thick orange heat of midday, rode up slightly, so that the smooth curve of her stomach was displayed in its entirety, right down to the quicksilver line that cupped its base, a split seam right in the middle of her. For as long as she could remember, that line had been there, though she had no idea how she came to be scarred there.

Today she ignored it. It was a blisteringly hot day; the buttery sun was high in the sky, a disc of pure gold so bright it seemed to diffuse any cloud that might have gathered there. Monica hummed to herself distractedly, a melody whose words she lost long ago. It had taken them a few years to get enough money together, but last year she and Wendell finally were in a position to move here, to Perth. The money they raised from selling their little maisonette in England had been enough, put with their savings, to buy them a smaller house, with only one bedroom. Wendell had been right, she thought now, though she had protested at the time. What on earth was the point of having an extra bedroom when they had no children and would never now have any, at their age? It was a waste of space.

If Monica was honest, it wasn't the house she particularly loved so much as the garden. Naturally green-fingered, she relished the opportunity to cultivate a patch of land far larger than had been their little garden at home, and in a much more hospitable climate than the rain-strummed streets and cloud-swirled skies of England. Wendell continued to practice dentistry here, finding a little clinic only twenty minutes drive from their new home, but Monica abstained, choosing instead to make their house and garden beautiful. "I'll find work when we need me to," she told Wendell whenever the subject presented itself, and he always grudgingly agreed.

She had to admit that moving here had done them both good. She, at least, felt healthier, now that her skin had regular access to pure sunlight rather than the artificial light she had been accustomed to at home when frequent bad weather drove her inside. The hot climate meant that she didn't want to cook big stews and stodgy meals, so that nowadays she was far happier nibbling on salad and soup, and as a result her waist seemed more refined of late. Even Wendell's slightly swollen belly had shrunken somewhat thanks to their healthier diet. He seemed happier.

She hadn't yet become bored with the novelty of her accent. She still delighted at every double take she caused whenever she spoke to shop assistants. Wendell had become a little tired of explaining where they were from constantly, but then Monica had always found pleasure in ridiculous things. She remembered the day they met with a smile now- she had crashed her trolley in the supermarket into his, quite deliberately. He had apologised profusely, though it had been entirely her fault, because she had been seeing him there for the past three weeks now and had finally resolved to find some way of speaking to him. The milk bottle in her trolley had fallen and cracked; white liquid now dripped all over her suede shoes and, mortified, he had insisted on buying her coffee to make up for it. Not that he had had to insist particularly hard, that is, because if he hadn't she would have taken up his offer anyway, whether he made it or not. He still didn't know it, but it was why Monica laughed a little every time she saw spilt milk. Wendell just thought she was odd.

At a shuffling noise behind her, she turned to see her husband standing in the doorway to the little garden, but as she did so there was a crash as he dropped the heavy watering can. Water spat out from it, splashing down the brick steps and over his sandalled feet. The smile that split her face warped now into a mask of irritation.

"For _goodness_ sake, Wen - !" she started and began to stoop to clear the split water, but then she saw the look of alarm that twisted his own features and she straightened once more. "Wen?" she asked, confused. "What's wrong?"

When he answered her, he did not look at her but kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, staring at the far end of the garden.

"Don't say anything, Mon, just come inside slowly."

His voice resonated with forced calm, and Monica frowned in puzzlement. "What? Why?"

Wendell grabbed her arm and pulled her gently but firmly towards him, his face knitted with concern.

"Because there are people in the garden," he said, finally tearing his gaze from the edge of the garden to look her meaningfully in the eyes. "And they've been watching you for a while now."

**~ OoOoO ~ **

Fourteen cups of tea later, the intruders were still outside in the garden. Wendell knew this because from time to time he twitched the lace at the windows and he could see them there. By now night had settled over Perth, so that the intruders cast long distorted shadows across the neatly clipped lawns, so that they seemed huge, menacing figures. Monica was frantic.

"What do they want, Wendell?" Her eyes widened with fear. "Do you think they'll try to hurt us?" She lifted a hand to her heart, feeling it fluttering weakly there, a reminder that she was, after all, still living, breathing. They had not harmed her. Yet.

"I don't know, Mon," Wendell replied honestly. "But I'm not waiting around to find out."

Monica looked at her husband, frightened. He was normally such a gentle man, but tonight his soft brown eyes seemed harder somehow, solidified amber, as if at any moment they might set off sparks. The folds of his brow were ruffled slightly in grim determination; his jaw was tightly laced, as if he is steeling himself.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. "If you think you're going outside to face them –!" she continued hotly, but he silenced her by raising his left hand slightly.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mon, do you think I'm stupid?" He fixed her with a stare so intense that she blushed slightly. "No, I'm calling the police. They're breaking and entering, that's illegal. It's trespassing."

Monica fluttered over to the window, securely barred and locked. Brushing aside the curtains as her husband had repeatedly done today, she looked fearfully into the little garden. She could see them at the very end. There were three of them, two boys and a girl, nestled around a jar that seems to sparkle bright blue. She squinted, trying to see, and then –

"You can't call the police, Wen, they're only children!" she cried.

Wendell stared at her, the phone nestled in his hand.

"What difference does that make?" he cried, incredulous. "If they're going to try to rob us, what does it matter if they're eight or eighty?"

"How do you know they want to rob us, Wen?" Monica asked, surprising herself with the calmness she had somehow managed to inject into her voice, surprising herself that she even possessed this idea, let alone could give it voice. "How do you know they aren't just needing help?"

"You are _not_ going out there to ask them, Mon!" Wendell said forcefully, though Monica noted that he had replaced the receiver into its cradle.

"Well, we have to do _something_, Wendell," she replied coolly. "I refuse to be a prisoner in my own home."

"So what do you intend on doing, exactly, Monica?" Wendell's voice was light, almost casual, but now it grew heavy with the weight of his sarcasm. "Offer them some apple pie? Give them some of _our_ money? Or perhaps you'd like to invite them all in to sleep in our bed, so they can murder us while we're asleep on the sofa? Much easier to do it then!"

He huffed into the kitchen, annoyed at his wife's apparent stupidity. She had always had a good heart – too good, really, and look where it might land them now. Cold, six feet under and missing some of their vital organs. Like their heads, for example.

"As long as you're in there," Monica's voice, irritatingly casual, floated through the open door. "Put the kettle on, won't you?"

Wendell muttered under his breath, slamming the thick red mugs down on the smooth counter-top and darkly thinking of all the ways they might be murdered tonight.

**~ oOoOo ~**

Dawn arrived early the next morning, rosy-cheeked and staining the skin of the sky a deep pink. Wendell was already awake; he had been up for two hours now, after an uneasy sleep, watching their new and unexpected guests in the garden.

"Bloody cheek," he muttered irritably. "They're taking liberties now."

He heard a shuffling noise behind him; spinning around, he saw his wife shuffle sleepily into the room, fat with the enormous pink robe she had wrapped around her slender frame. A yawn engulfed her face so that he could see every one of her fillings.

"Well," she said, in the kind of breathy voice that only exists in the very early morning. "We're still alive, aren't we? I don't _feel_ particularly dead, do you?" When he only looked at her irritably she smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Why don't you just _talk_ to them? Clearly they don't want to hurt us or rob us, or they'd have done it already."

"They look like beggars," Wendell replied. "One of the boys has scruffy black hair – looks like he hasn't combed it in weeks."

"Well, then they obviously _do_ need help, don't they, if they're beggars?" Monica said, slipping her arm around him, but Wendell soon changed tack.

"No, they're probably con artists," he said, and at this new display of paranoia Monica actually laughed.

"Oh, for goodness sake, Wen, this isn't some stupid TV show! They're _kids_!" she added pointedly.

"Think about it, Mon," Wendell said, staring thoughtfully into the garden. "Two boys and a girl – probably they're planning on using the girl to get our sympathy, our trust, and then once they've got it those two'll come in and take what's ours. They look quite strong, the pair of them. Bit weedy, the dark-haired one, but if you're hungry enough and desperate enough it's surprising what you're capable of."

"Oh, yes, Wendell, brilliant plan," Monica drawled sarcastically, irked by her husband's ridiculousness. "Yes, they're gaining our trust by doing nothing other than camp in our garden looking a bit scruffy; they really must be master criminals! Wait a moment while I grab my torch and pitchfork, just to be sure! Or shall I skip that and phone the Australian version of MI6? I'm sure they'll be _thrilled_ to hear we've got three slightly scruffy teenagers doing nothing whatsoever in our back garden!"

Wendell didn't say anything, but threw her an extremely dirty look. "I'm still not going out there, Mon."

"Fine," Monica replied hotly. "Then I _am_." And before Wendell had time to protest she had tightened the cord of her robe and padded softly towards the back door, pausing as she did so to pick up an unopened packet of cakes from the kitchen counter. They were Wendell's, bought to combat his recently-diagnosed diabetes for when he had low blood sugar, but she reasoned that there were plenty of other sweet things in the house should that happen. _Ironic, isn't it?_ she had said to him at the time. _You spend so much time telling kids not to eat sugary food, and now it turns out you actually _need _to sometimes!_

The grass was crisp beneath her slippers; she could feel it crunching as she crossed the lawn towards the little band of teenagers. They had set up a little tent at the edge of the garden, and Monica wondered at their poverty – the tent looked hardly big enough for one of them, let alone three. They were seated outside it in a little circle, drinking from large off-white mugs, and they looked up expectantly as she stopped in front of them.

She hesitated now, her bravado dissipating slightly now that she was here. Fumbling for words, she held out the packet of cakes to the nearest, a tall red-headed boy, who took them eagerly. He moved to rip the packet open but a dark look from the girl stayed his hand. She turned now to look up at Monica, tipping her face towards her so that it was in plain view for the first time, and Monica felt the blood slow in her veins.

_She has Wendell's eyes_, she thought. _Those are Wendell's eyes, and nose. _But that was ridiculous. Neither she nor Wendell had any children, or even any siblings. But this girl looked so much like Wendell it is frightening.

"May I ask what you three are doing in our garden?" Monica asked softly in her best telephone voice, directing her question at the girl simply because she could not take her eyes from her. It was the scruffy-haired boy who answered her.

"We've come to see you and your husband," he said gently, and Monica did not know what was more surprising; the vibrant leafy shade of his green eyes or the fact that he was speaking in an English accent, rather than an Australian one.

"You're English?" she asked. "All of you?"

The three of them nodded; the red-head muttered, "Yeah" thickly through a mouthful of the cakes, ignoring the girl's looks.

"And you've travelled all this way to see me and my husband?" Monica continued, puzzled. She could feel Wendell's wary eyes on the back of her neck, though she told herself it was merely the imprint of the sun's strengthening rays. "But why?"

No one said anything; the girl pulled herself slowly to her feet. She looked straight into Monica's eyes, and for a moment Monica was lost, because they were Wendell's eyes and she was remembering the first time she ever looked into them, the way her heart seemed to slip in her chest so that her pulse seemed fragmented, racing.

"Because -" began the girl, falteringly, and the red-headed boy reached for her hand.

"Go on," he said reassuringly, and he squeezed her hand gently, lacing his fingers tightly through her own as if to relinquish his hold on her would be to lose her forever. "It's okay."

She blushed a little, and finally, in a voice as clear and as bright as ice, she spoke.

"I didn't want – I _don't_ want to do it this way," she said, her eyes staring directly at the spot above Monica's shoulder. "I wanted to just reverse everything, so that I wouldn't need to do this, but that's not an option anymore. I tried, at first, but it hasn't worked, so this is the only way."

Monica had no idea what the strange, thin girl was talking about, but something about the urgency in her words made her wait for the rest of the explanation. It felt as though the words needed to be said.

"I'm here," the girl said, her voice high and quivering a little from the apparent stress of her efforts. "Because I'm your daughter."

**Author's Note:**

**After a long period of indecision, I eventually decided to clean up Righting Wrongs. By 'clean up' I mean the following:**

** - lengthening certain chapters by combining shorter ones, so there's less to flick through and it flows more succinctly**

** - revising the storytelling itself, so that there are no discrepancies. **

**There will, therefore, be no updates until I have completed what will be a difficult and lengthy process. **


	2. Nonsensical Explanations

**~ Chapter Two – Nonsensical Explanations ~ **

"I _knew_ they were up to no good!"

Wendell rushed across the lawn to his wife. He watched her fall, seconds before, folding gracefully like a concertina, her legs simply crumpling beneath her as though the weight of her shock had been too great to bear. She lay on the grass now, her thick dark curls fanning around her head – the three scruffy layabouts were crouched over her, the girl holding a long thin strip of wood and muttering under her breath. Just as Wendell reached his wife's unconscious body she stirred, a hand trembling at her chest as she sat up slowly, her face flushed bright.

After checking that she was alright, he rounded angrily on the three teenagers. "What did you do to her?" he snarled, and the girl had the grace to lower her eyes. "What did you do to my wife?"

"Wen, stop it," Monica's faint voice floated up to him; she extended her hand and, taking it, he lifted her carefully to her feet. "_They_ didn't do anything. I fainted, that's all."

"Fainted?" Wendell looked puzzled – he stared rapidly from face to face, first his wife's, then each of the teenagers in succession. Two of them smiled – the last, the redhead, grinned stupidly. "You've been out in the sun too long. Didn't I tell you to come inside earlier?"

"It wasn't the sun," Monica corrected, her features set haughtily. "But all the same, it was ridiculous, stupid, really -"

"It's not ridiculous at all!" interjected the red-headed boy crossly. "You just don't believe us, that's all."

Wendell frowned confusedly. "Don't believe what?"

Monica smiled in mild embarrassment, not wishing to repeat their outlandish claim. It was a joke, of course it is – an extraordinarily badly-timed April Fool's prank, a hoax. She half expected to see a garishly-suited and hyperactive television presenter jumping out from behind a bush to tell her she'd been "a real sport".

"Go on," said the dark-haired boy, staring at her indignantly. "Tell him."

"Oh for g- these children, Wen, say that we have a daughter."

"What?" Wendell spluttered. "Who?"

"Her," said the redhead, indicating the girl, who blushed furiously now. "Mr and Mrs Granger, this is Hermione."

"Excuse me – what did you say?" said Wendell.

The red-headed boy didn't miss a beat. "I said this is Hermio -"

"No, not _that_ - what did you call us?" Wendell said hurriedly, flapping a hand at the boy as if this would coerce the answers from him faster.

"Mr and Mrs Granger?" said the boy, and then, "OW!" as the girl, 'Hermione', stepped heavily on his foot. He scowled at her but he did not untangle his long fingers from her own.

"Ah. That's what I thought you said," said Wendell, his manner becoming brisk now that he was satisfied the answer had been found. "Well, I'm afraid you have the wrong house; there are no Grangers here, there never has been – the people here before us were the Cahills. Our surname is - "

"Wilkins," interjected the dark-haired boy languidly. "At least, that's your _new_ name."

"Granger's the old one," added the redhead helpfully, and Wendell and Monica simply goggled at them.

"It's a long story, and it's quite complicated," said Hermione at last, after long moments had passed painfully slowly, tuned so sharply with tension that even to breathe audibly seemed to snap the fraught air around them. "Would it be okay if we came inside?"

**~oOoOo~**

The tea cup in Monica's hand trembled a little, so that she must hold it tightly with both hands. Wendell wasn't drinking anything at all; he had folded himself into the squashy armchair by the fireplace and was staring at the three teenagers as though he couldn't quite understand what he had done to deserve such nonsense. They sat bunched together on the sofa opposite Monica and Wendell, Hermione in the middle with a boy flanking her on either side. She was bent over, a question mark, and suddenly Wendell found this funny because, after all, _she_ was the one who supposedly had all the answers. Throughout the achingly polite conversation her shaking hands remained wrapped around the hands of the red-headed boy, who looked at Wendell fiercely whenever he could feel the heat of his anger; and several times Monica spotted the dark-haired boy casting furtive glances at their hands with an expression of longing in his bright eyes.

"Okay," said Wendell at last. "But -why wouldn't we remember something like that? Were we both knocked on the head in the delivery room? Abducted by aliens? What?"

"No," Hermione said, and her eyes sparkled suddenly. "I put a spell on both of you, so that you'd forget me."

Wendell snorted. "Really? If that's the case then why can't you just lift it then?"

"I tried," Hermione said, her voice soft. "But it's been too long – I did it quite strongly so that it would work but now it's been over a year and it's strengthened. I'm frightened it will go wrong."

She bit her lip as tears spilt over; the redhead did not even blink but had his arm around her in a heartbeat. He soothed her gently, whispering words into her ears; neither Wendell nor Monica could hear what he was saying but Hermione was nodding now.

"Alright," said Wendell, feeling frustrated. No matter what he said to these three they had an increasingly fantastic answer. "Let's say, for arguments' sake, that we believe you're our daughter, however mad that idea is."

"And she is," growled the redhead as both their heads snapped up to Wendell.

"If you are," continued Wendell, "then why would you want us to forget you?"

"Because of me," said the dark-haired boy at last, the first thing he had said since they came in from the garden twenty minutes ago.

"You?" spluttered Wendell.

"Yeah," said the boy, locking eyes with him. "It's a really long, complicated story, but the first thing you need to understand is that there really is such a thing as magic. And the three of us - " he indicated each of them in turn. " – are wizards and witches."

Wendell laughed now. "What a load of - "

"It's _not_ rubbish!" said the red-headed boy quickly. "We can prove it to you."

"What're you going to do?" snorted Wendell derisively. "Pull a rabbit out of a hat? Take a coin from behind my ear?"

"Those are all parlour tricks," said the dark-haired boy. "Okay, I'll prove it to you."

He got up suddenly and strode over to the mantelpiece above the fireplace. After careful perusal of its contents, he picked up the largest snow-globe and took aim before throwing it. It sailed in a smooth arc across the living room before disappearing through the glass of the kitchen window which overlooked the garden, sending shards all over the counter-tops.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?!" shouted Wendell, enraged. The boy didn't listen but pulled out a strip of wood similar to the one Hermione had earlier. He pointed it at the shattered window.

"_Reparo_", he said loudly, and Wendell stared as the window knitted itself back together. Incredulous, he ran and touched a hand to the smooth surface, but the pane was just as flat and clear as it had been five minutes ago.

"H –how did you do that?" he asked, natural curiosity.

"I told you," said the dark-haired boy, folding his arms. "Because magic _exists _and certain people have the power to use it."

Wendell ran a hand through his hair; his eyes were wide and his brain felt mashed.

"I know it's a lot to take in," said the boy kindly, "But if you'll let me explain, you'll understand."

Wendell slumped into his chair once more, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Okay," he said. "But at least tell me your names first. Your _real_ names," he added quickly.

"Hermione Granger," said the boy, pointing at her. He pointed at the redhead next. "Ron Weasley. And Harry Potter,"

The last name snagged in Wendell's mind, despite the fact he knew he had never laid eyes on this boy before in his life.

"There are wizards and witches all over the world," said Harry, sounding as though he was picking his words extremely carefully. "There're probably some in this street, people you talk to. They're exactly the same as you and the only difference is that they can do magic. Everyone in the wizarding world knows my name, because when I was a baby a Dark wizard seized power and began persecuting people like you for not being magical. He tried to kill me but it backfired." He lifts a hand to his forehead and pulls back his long fringe to reveal a faint scar. "That's how I got this."

"Right," said Wendell slowly, trying to take all of this in and trying also to quieten the voice in his head that was screaming that these people were insane. "I still don't see what this has to do with what you're claiming."

"He didn't die when it backfired. And a few years ago he started to regain strength and take over once more. I know none of this is making any sense to you, but he was a very powerful wizard - "

"Was?" says Wendell, catching this one word. "Why not 'is'?"

"Because I killed him," says the boy flatly. "There was a huge battle, one where lots of people died – innocent people. We were on the run for nearly a year, the three of us, because he was looking for me, to finish the job. The reason Hermione put the spell on you was for your own protection, because this man wasn't above torturing people for information, or killing them if they didn't say what he wanted to hear. And if you didn't know who any of us were or even have the same names anymore, you couldn't be a target."

Wendell looked uncertainly at his wife. She had remained silent throughout all of this and now she stared carefully at the floor, as though expecting to find all the answers written there.

"So what are our 'real' names, then?" he asked.

"Your name is Robert Paul Granger," said Hermione softly. She looked at Monica now, and Monica felt her heart slip once more in her chest. "And your name is Catherine Lucy Granger. I have your birth certificates, your marriage certificate -"

"_We_ have our marriage certificate," began Wendell, or 'Robert', but Hermione was already shaking her head.

"You have the fake certificate I made for you. All the names are changed – even the witnesses."

"But you _can't_ be my daughter – you just can't be!" cried 'Catherine' suddenly, all the words that had been damming in her chest breaking loose suddenly. "I would _remember_ you! And you've not shown me anything to prove otherwise, not one single thing, just some complicated story!"

"I'm nineteen years old and I was born by Caesarean section," said Hermione quickly, locking her eyes onto Catherine. "You went into labour on the 18th of September 1979 and I was born on the 19th, thirty-three hours later. There were complications so the doctors cut you open. You have a scar on your belly because of it– it's very faint now but I used to stroke it when I was little. I was jealous because I didn't have one, but you said I didn't need one, I was special in other ways."

Catherine nodded carefully and lifted a hand faintly to her mouth as Hermione spoke –Harry and Ron looked away as if embarrassed to listen, pushed to the edges by the strength of the emotion that surged between the two females, something they were not a part of. Robert fiddled with the sleeve of his dressing gown, staring at his wife and the girl who called herself his daughter.

"In the summertime we used to visit my gran in Cornwall, but she died when I was seven, and we don't have any other family apart from that. You - Catherine - you've got one sister, called Rebecca, and she lives in England still, though you won't remember her, but apart from her husband and my two cousins we don't have any family left on either side. You've been dentists for as long as I can remember – all my life, I think, both of you, and I wanted to fix my teeth magically but you both insisted I carry on with my brace."

Her eyes brightened now, sparkling with the memories that lay just behind them, and Catherine thought again how much they were like Robert's. Robert was nodding carefully; he _had_ been practising dentistry for twenty-two years, he _had_ no other family apart from Catherine.

"When I got a letter saying I was a witch and I had a place at Hogwarts, the wizarding school, I hid it from you, because I was afraid you'd think I was lying, or odd. You found it when you were changing my bed-sheets, and told me off for hiding it. You said you'd be proud whatever I decided to do. You didn't tell Auntie Rebecca even though you wanted to, because I didn't want everyone to know. You wrote a letter back to the school and asked what we'd need to do and where we could get school supplies."

Catherine bet she didn't even realise she is crying; Robert bet that neither of them did.

"You sent me letters all the time in my first year at school, when I didn't fit in and I had no friends. I've got every letter you ever sent me when I was at school – I kept every single one. I've got photos from our holidays to France, Christmases, birthdays with all of us in. Look -" She fumbled in her bag and pulled out a stack of papers, which she passed to Catherine and Robert. "I collected everything together after I put the spell on you, so that even if it was never safe for me to find you again, I could still remember that I did have parents."

Catherine traced the words written in the letter with her mouth, the endearments and reassurances inked in her own spidery handwriting. Robert traced his fingers over one of the photographs in his hand. It was Christmas morning in the topmost one, and a little girl with long dark curls sat beneath an enormous tree, discarded wrapping paper around her forming a fortress. Unmistakeably, at the edge of the photograph his wife smiled and laughed as she watched the little girl. In the next photograph he sat in his wife's place, offering the girl another present; he and Catherine had switched places.

"You might say that I've faked all these pictures and letters and I'm making everything up," said Hermione, and her voice cracked with hurt. "But if I'm not your daughter, then how do I know that you, Robert, like your toast with butter on one side and jam on the other, and that the first thing you do in the morning is put the kettle on, even if you're not going to make a cup of tea, and that the first holiday you ever went on was to a caravan in Skegness with your parents? If I'm just a liar, Catherine, then how do I know that you'd rather hold a tarantula than even look at a worm, and that you really wanted to be a ballet dancer when you were five and a penguin when you were six? How do I know that tuna makes you sick, even if you just smell it, and that you both always wanted to travel the world when you'd retired? How do I _know_ all that, if you didn't tell me and I'm not your daughter?"

She choked back a sob and stood abruptly, the tears flowing freely now. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "I can't – I need to be by myself, just for a few minutes. I'm sorry," she said again, and then she rushed from the room, Ron an inch behind her, calling her name, Harry following.

Alone now, Catherine crumpled into tears and Robert folded his arms around her, because it was all he could think to do, and because it was the only thing that made sense anymore.


	3. The Path to Reunion

_**~ Chapter Three - The Path to Reunion ~ **_

The battle had been won but Harry could see the sadness that tugged at the corners of Hermione's mouth, and at first he had guessed that it was merely shell-shock, a knee-jerk reaction to seeing so much carnage in such a short span of time. He had assumed that it was simply that she was grieving for all those who lay slain, people she had cared about, but now it had been weeks and she remained as grim-faced as ever, in spite of the seemingly endless celebrations of the wizarding world at Voldemort's downfall.

It took a while, but eventually he managed, by a process of logical elimination of which she might have been proud, to pin down the cause of her unhappiness. He voiced this theory to her one afternoon in early August.

They were staying, the three of them, at the Burrow and had been since the final battle – Harry because it felt more like home than the thick emptiness of Grimmauld Place, which now held too many memories to be comfortable, and Hermione because she now had nowhere else to go, not to mention the added attraction of the fact that Ron was there too.

They had been casually sitting in Ron's room, the three of them plus Ginny who, since the return to normalcy, had barely been out of Harry's sight, playing Exploding Snap and chatting about nothing at all.

"It's so weird, isn't it?" Ron was saying as he carefully placed the Queen of Diamonds without unlacing his fingers from Hermione's. "Thinking that it's all over now."

"It's not over, though," Harry said pointedly, and he looked at Hermione. "Is it?"

Hermione looked away. She felt guilty – Mrs Weasley had done so much for her over the past few weeks, provided her with a home, meals, a surrogate family, and yet all Hermione could think of was the day she could go home, _really_ home. She had been wrenched from sleep many times now; moonlight glowing on clammy skin, her heart beating in time to the terror that she might never find her parents again. Even worse was the continual thought that even if she found them, they would not remember their daughter. The notion that if they remembered they would not forgive her abandonment of them haunted her dreams, stole the light from her smile.

"I don't even know where they are," she said in a small voice, and in the space between heartbeats she could feel the reassuring weight of Ron's arm slipped around her shoulders. "I wouldn't know where to start looking."

"Australia," said Ron, as if it were that simple and Australia was no larger than his kitchen.

"Think about it," Harry said gently. "We've found Horcruxes with less to go on, haven't we?"

"Yeah," agreed Ron quickly, slightly annoyed with himself that Harry had pinpointed the reason for her sadness before he had. "We've got their names, a rough location, what they look like – and look on the bright side, Hermione, at least this time we won't have to nick a dragon, eh?"

Despite herself, Hermione let out a small hiccough of a laugh.

"So, when do we leave?" piped up Ginny, and there was an uneasy pause. Ron, however, seemed not to notice the awkward moment and merely glowered at his sister.

"_We're_ going as soon as we're ready. _You_ are staying here."

Ginny opened her mouth to argue but Harry cut in before she could say anything – he had seen the flash in her eyes that signalled danger too many times, and was determined to see no more blood shed. At least not today.

"Er, Gin, could I speak to you?" he said. "Outside?"

To his enormous surprise (and, secretly, relief) Ginny obeyed instantly, closing her mouth and peeling herself off the bed before trotting serenely out of the little bedroom; her sole act of rebellion was the dark look and flicked fingers at her brother as she passed him, though he was by now whispering into Hermione's ear and could not have cared less. Once outside, Harry took her hands gently in his as he tried to gather the words, but Ginny got in first.

"I suppose I shouldn't really be surprised, should I?" she said darkly. "I mean, I wasn't allowed to even know where you were or what you were doing while you three were off saving the world, so why should helping Hermione find her parents be any different?"

Harry took a deep breath before he answered, trying to fit the words he had to say into a pattern that would cause the least damage, trying to ignore the hurt in her eyes; it would be so easy to give in, so easy to weaken and allow her to join them.

"Look," he said, squeezing her hands. "Please don't think I don't want you to come. I missed you like mad the whole time we were on the run. It's just…this is all going to be hard enough for Hermione and her parents as it is, so it's just best if there're as few of us as possible."

"Then why do _you_ have to go?" Ginny replied obstinately, tipping her face up to Harry's so that he could count the freckles that dusted her chin. "Why can't it just be Ron and Hermione?"

"Hermione's risked her life for me so many times since we've been friends I've actually lost count. I didn't even have to ask her to help me find the Horcruxes – she was all packed before I even thought of it, she actually had to _talk _me into letting her come. So the least I can do is help her find her parents – especially since it's my fault she had to lose them in the first place."

Ginny nodded grudgingly; she was clearly taking all of this onboard, but that didn't mean she had to like it. And she wasn't ready to give in just then. "Well, what am I supposed to do while you're away? Sit around like a good girl, twiddling my thumbs and waiting for you to come back?"

"Your mum wouldn't let you come anyway, Gin." Harry said, smiling slightly. "Besides, the school reopens soon – you can finish studying for your NEWTs, like you wanted."

She couldn't argue with the truth or the logic of this statement. Professor McGonagall had been officially appointed the new Headmistress of Hogwarts, and her first decision had been that life resume normality as quickly as possible. To that end, the school would reopen on the first of November, two months later than usual, so as to allow grieving families time to adjust and to provide sufficient time for the school to be fully purged of the evils of the previous year. All previous students had been extended an invitation to return. Harry, Ron and Hermione had been offered the chance to complete the final year of studies they had been denied, but Harry and Ron had politely declined, feeling that the castle was too full of painful memories now.

"It wouldn't be the same," Ron had said, correctly. For one thing, the patch of land beside Dumbledore's restored tomb had been converted into a little graveyard to honour those who had died fighting for the school, the final resting place of Tonks, Fred, Lupin. A large marble block had been erected, beautifully polished, onto which a bronze plaque had been mounted, listing the names of the slain beneath the words:

_Here lie the valiant heroes of_

_The Battle of Hogwarts 1998_

_Who gave their lives so that we might recall the taste of freedom_

_Remember them_

Hermione, of course, had every intention of returning to complete her NEWTS, as much as Ron had gently teased her about it. She was determined to join the Ministry, assisting in its entire cleanup, and insisted that she could only make a difference if she were fully qualified. Ron and Harry had thought differently, feeling that their school days were behind them, that they had all the skills they were likely to need, and that what was best was to continue with life, rather than yearn for days that were long gone from them.

_**~ OoOoO ~**_

"There has to be wizards working here, Hermione," Ron said loudly, ignoring her dark looks. "How else would this bloody thing stay in the air without magic?"

"For the last time, Ron, _shut up_," Hermione hissed. "Remember our deal? What will happen if you don't keep quiet?"

They were currently seated on a large plane – Ron by the window, Harry by the aisle and Hermione seated between them – flying somewhere over France, and Hermione did not know which was worse – the fact that Ron had squealed loudly when they had taken off, or the fact that he now was listing all the charms that might have been used to enable the plane to fly. All she knew was that, if he carried on, there was the very real chance that she would have to kill him. Which would have been sad, as they hadn't been together long.

This had eventually been agreed to be their best and only viable option. After much discussion of the various methods they might employ to actually _get_ to Australia, she and Harry had been forced to concede that flying with a Muggle airline was probably the easiest way. They knew no Australian witches or wizards, meaning that Floo Powder was out; none of them were confident enough in their Apparition skills to risk travelling so far and to an unknown place; and, despite Harry's feeble suggestion that they try, broomsticks were deemed an unnecessary danger.

Initially, Hermione had fretted over the cost of such a trip – "Flights are expensive, Harry, especially to the other side of the world!" – but Harry had quelled her fears with the reassurance that he had more than enough in his Gringotts' account, coupled with the large pile of gold which grateful well-wishers had insisted on owling him in the past few weeks, to cover the cost of the flights for all three of them, once he had converted it to sterling. "No more sneaking around," he had promised her faithfully when they had travelled to Muggle London to book the tickets.

Hermione's main two worries had, ironically, been the simplest to solve. The first was that, of the three of them, she alone had flown by plane before – the Dursleys, of course, would have sooner eaten cold sick than take Harry on holiday with them, and Ron had little knowledge of Muggle life as it was. However, Harry knew enough of Muggle customs to be trusted not to act too amazed, and Ron, it transpired, needed only the combined threat of a Tongue-Tying Curse and Hermione not speaking to him for the whole trip to contain his excitement.

Her second worry had been slightly more complicated to solve but, being Hermione, she had eventually puzzled it out.

"Right," she had said. "Since I'm the only one who's ever flown before, obviously I'm the only one with a passport, and it takes far too long to send off for you two to get one properly. A passport is a document that says you can travel freely between countries," she added, catching Ron's curious look. "Kind of like a WiziTransport Card."

"So…" prompted Harry, and for the first time in weeks a smile uncurled from Hermione's lips.

"So, I took two passports from Muggles in the village by Accio Charm for you two to use. Here," she said, pulling them from her beaded bag and passing them over.

Harry scanned his with some amusement - a dark-haired man of perhaps thirty stared back at him, his eyes a deep blue-green, his olive skin split by acne scars.

Ron's depicted a boy of around thirteen years old, with rosy cheeks and enormous blue eyes, though the date of birth beside the photo insisted that he was, in fact, eighteen. "Er, I don't want to spit on your brilliant plan, Hermione," he said carefully, "But since when do I look like Harry's cousin?"

"Honestly, Ron," Hermione breathed. "We're going to alter your appearance, stupid. They don't look too hard at your picture anyway, you just flash it at them, and you won't need to memorise any information either, as no one will ever ask. And when we book the tickets, those names will be on them too, so just for the flight Harry's going to be called Alex, and Ron, your name will be Jack. "

"So what's your name going to be?" Ron had asked, and Hermione had rolled her eyes at him.

"Brenda," she said, and then threw a pillow at him in exasperation when he had smiled and said, "Oh, OK."

Now seated on the plane, three weeks later, it felt surreal. Hermione itched to reach for her beaded bag, stowed securely in the overhead compartment above her, to check they had everything, even though it was far too late now. They had agreed that Hermione would carry most of their supplies, since the bag had proven invaluable over the past year, including Harry's Invisibility Cloak. There had been a lot of disagreement about this, but it had eventually been decided that it was safer to bring it – just because the danger had passed, after all, didn't mean that there were no stray Death Eaters who had somehow escaped incarceration and who wouldn't seize the chance to complete what their master had not. Plus there was every chance a jubilant witch or wizard would want to congratulate or thank Harry, drawing Muggle attention to them, so it had seemed smarter all around to bring it as a precaution, just in case something happened.

A small voice to Hermione's right brought her out of her thoughts. Ron looked ridiculous now, his face pink and puffed up, his hair blonde and curly, but his eyes remained the same and she could read the worry painted across them. He gripped her hand tightly.

"Hermione – " he hissed – around them people had put on their eye-masks and settled themselves down to sleep, since they had already been in the air for several hours and by now night had fallen, at least by their body clocks. "What if I need to…"

"To what?"

"You know…" Ron whispered, staring at her meaningfully. "Use the toilet."

Hermione smiled. The perfect revenge. "You hold it," she said, and with that she pulled her own eyemask on and allowed sleep to pull itself over her.

**~ OoOoO ~**

"I still don't get why we couldn't just sleep in a motel," grumbled Ron, rubbing his back irritably; the beds in the tent had seemed harder than usual.

"Because we don't know how long we're going to be here, Ron," replied Hermione without looking at him. "We need to save money, you know, for _food_."

The three of them had been in Sydney for over a week now – an entirely fruitless week, in which the only Wilkins they had found had been a greengrocers run by a very old and very grumpy Australian man, who had quickly become angry when he realised they didn't, in fact, wish to buy any potatoes. Currently they were walking along a wide high street bulging with shops on either side, some franchises they recognised, others family-run businesses like the greengrocers which had just ordered them out of the shop.

"I'm hungry," complained Ron loudly. "I can hear my stomach and everything – can't we stop for a burger or something?"

"Oh, alright," Hermione finally conceded, her own stomach growling. "There's a café there, we'll just get a sandwich or something." Secretly she was glad to be out of the sun – though it was easing into spring right now, it was an unusually hot day, which meant that as they walked she could see the pale heat rising from the cracks in the road as surely as she could feel the pulse of the sun beating its orange-gold tattoo onto her skin. Ron's skin was already a little pink from the exposure.

Walking into the little café was glorious – the breath of the air conditioner felt beautiful against their hot skin, and the three of them slid into a little booth, the shiny red seats sticking to their sweaty limbs immediately. Almost immediately, a small ferrety-looking man appeared beside them, coffee-pot steaming in one hand, a pile of laminated menus in the other.

"Welcome to Martin's!" he said happily, and in a split second two things happened instantaneously. Firstly, the three of them noticed that he spoke in a very strong English accent, rather than the Australian they had been expecting. And secondly, the little man did a double take, during which he nearly dropped the coffee-pot in his hand.

"Oh my – Harry? Harry Potter? It _is_ you, isn't it?"

Harry nodded and then squinted at the man – he could be another well-wisher, but this man seemed to look familiar, oddly familiar, though he couldn't place him at all.

"Reg Cattermole?" breathed Ron. "You work at the Ministry in England, don't you?"

"No, no, not anymore," said Reg, now positively beaming at them. "No, after you helped us my wife and I fled the country, thought it'd be best to lie low for a bit, you know, what with everything that was going on…I'll go get her in a minute, she'll be so pleased to see you."

"Hang on," said Harry. "How do you know we helped you?"

"Oh, now, you didn't think that was kept entirely quiet, did you? Everyone knows you broke into the Ministry, its common knowledge, it had to be you that let us all out, there's no way Runcorn _or _Yaxley would've done that!"

"So why're you still here, Mr Cattermole?" said Hermione carefully. "I mean, it's safe to go home again now."

"Ah, my wife and I, we've got a good little job out here, with this café. Good business, too. And the kids are settled now, good schools, they've got friends – it just seems silly to go home now, when it isn't home anymore," said Reg happily. He seemed less thin than any of them remembered. "And it's not Cattermole anymore – we changed our name, you know, to be safe – it's Martin now. I heard about what you did though, the last battle. More than I could have done, I tell you that, all of you. Your families ought to be damn proud of you, damn proud."

At this Hermione's eyes filled with tears; blinking, she looked down, and Ron's arm settled around her waist once more, reassuring her with its warmth and solidarity.

"Actually," he said, looking straight into Reg's face. "That's kind of why we're here."

"Yeah," said Harry. "And you might be able to help us, Mr Catt – er, Mr Martin."

"Anything!" said Reg, the grin that split his face actually managing to widen. "Anything at all, for you, just name it!"

"Hermione had to send her parents into hiding, like you, but she doesn't know where they are now," said Harry. "I don't suppose you know a Monica and Wendell Wilkins, do you?"

Reg frowned thoughtfully, chewing his bottom lip in such an exaggerated way it seemed comical; even Hermione sniffed back her tears to smile a little.

"No, I'm sorry, I don't think I do," he said ruefully, shaking his head. Then, brightening suddenly, he continued. "But I know a way you can find them. There's loads of English families that fled over here, so there's been loads of relatives come looking for their family – so many, in fact, that the Australian Ministry has set up a little department devoted to locating missing family members."

Excitement froze Hermione's senses. Suddenly she could do nothing but emit strangled squeaks as all the words she wanted to say fought to be said at once; she threw her arms around Reg's little body, crying "Thank you!" over and over again.

"Lucky for you lot," Reg continued, looking slightly alarmed by Hermione's sudden display of gratitude. "It's not too far from here, either. Halfway down New Canterbury Road there's an enormous white building – you can't miss it – that's the headquarters. Entrance is the same as visitors in England – phonebox, key in what you're after, you know the drill."

**~ OoOoO ~**

Three hours later (Reg had insisted they sample several of the café's delicious cakes and bagels, for free, in gratitude for what they had done before he had allowed them to leave, their bags stuffed with more free samples.) the three of them stood cramped awkwardly into a phonebox as Hermione punched in the key that Reg had given them. It was essentially identical to the visitor's entrance in London – the coin chute spat out three little white name badges, one for each of them, and the telephone box then sank into the ground noiselessly, eventually opening to reveal an enormous reception area which, strangely, was entirely devoid of people apart from a little bespectacled witch seated behind an equally immense desk at the far end.

"May I help you?" she asked pleasantly once the three of them had traipsed across the highly polished green marble floor to her desk.

"I'm looking for my parents," Hermione began timidly. "At least, I'm trying to – I don't know – you see -"

"You need the Department for Missing People, Patrick Wrottesley, third floor, take the lift," the woman breathed in a thick Australian accent, and then she returned to filing her nails, all pleasantry vanishing instantly with her now-clearly fake smile.

"Least they keep the names simple here, eh?" muttered Ron as they headed towards the lift.

Patrick Wrottesley turned out to be an extremely tall and handsome young wizard who, despite his incredible height, had a very kind face and long flowing dark hair which rippled with every movement of his head. When Hermione had explained the situation he had merely nodded with a practiced sympathy that suggested he heard this kind of story every day and so was now an expert on playing his part.

"It's really very simple," he said, speaking directly to Hermione, much to Ron's chagrin. "It just looks complicated. Do you have a recent photograph of them both?"

Hermione blushed, realising she had been staring a little, and nodded, crimson, pulling a large photograph from her bag of her parents together, taken the Christmas before. They smiled in it, and Ron leaned over, trying to look – he had never seen Hermione's parents before, not properly, and he suddenly felt foolish.

Patrick took it carefully. "And I need a piece of your hair – it helps strengthen the potion I'm going to be using," he said gently. Hermione's eyes widened a little but she nodded once again, lifting a hand to her head and snipping one of her long curls away using the scissors he had passed her. It lay limply in her hand, the whorl of a seashell, and she tipped in carefully into Patrick's smooth palm.

"It works a bit like a Pensieve," Patrick was saying. "It can show you your parents, maybe a house. Sometimes people get lucky enough to get an address with it. It's a bit of an imprecise art, but we'll see. Let's hope, right?"

He tipped Hermione's hair into an enormous carved wooden bowl, which was full of what appeared to be swirling orange fog, before adding the photograph and poking it with his wand, muttering under his breath all the while. Nothing happened for long moments, until – suddenly the bowl appeared to be choking, the mist swelled to a cloud that surrounded them, the colour of summer's skin, the potion in the bowl appeared to be bubbling and spitting and then it seemed to belch, and all at once the fog cleared and all that was there were the three of them and Patrick, who had stooped to the floor and was now frowning at a slip of paper.

"Looks like you're one of the lucky ones," he said, grinning broadly. "There's an address."

**Author's Note: **

**I would like to point out that, despite my wishes, I have never been to Sydney, Perth, or any part of Australia, therefore all description is based ENTIRELY upon imagination and (very) shaky knowledge, so please don't judge too harshly! And I know that it's not very hot in September-ish in Australia, but I just really wanted it to be for this chapter, and there is such a thing as freak weather days so that's why it's boiling now - if you still don't agree just take it as English people being too used to the cold! **


	4. Floo Powder, Memory and Something Solid

**~ Chapter Four – Floo Powder, Memories and Something Solid ~ **

Robert relaxed in his seat, pressing his fingertips to his temples. "Isn't this the kind of stress we moved out here to get _away_ from, Mon?" he said in a thin voice.

Catherine nodded from her position perched at the edge of the squashy little armchair, her arms around herself as if she were holding herself together in the only way she knew how. Her usually slim face was puffy with the tears she had shed in the past few hours.

"I don't know what to think anymore," she whispered, and when she looked at her husband the sadness painted in her eyes made him ache for her, wanting to take her in his arms and make everything right again. "I mean, it sounds so ridiculous…but so much of what she said makes sense…so much is true. How would a stranger know that? Even one who was stalking us?"

Robert nodded. Catherine was right, of course; she was always right. And the girl, Hermione, knew things she couldn't possibly know if she wasn't who she said she was. The photos she left behind looked too real to be doctored, and when he scanned them he could feel his heart lighten slightly, as if the warmth of a memory beat there, begging for his recollection.

"Well," he said. "If you're sure, Mon, and you believe her -"

"Nothing else makes sense!" cried Catherine. "M-My scar, even I can't explain where I got my scar, but what she said makes so much sense!"

"You do believe her, then?" Robert squatted beside his wife, taking her slim hands in his.

She nodded. "I don't have a choice."

"Then I believe her too. Come on."

He lifted her gently to her feet, feeling her fragility beneath his fingertips, and the two of them walked back outside to the garden, to where the three teenagers retreated three hours ago. The sunlight hit her skin, tightened and caramelised by hours spent outside, and he remembered the way she had looked on their first date; how pale her glowing skin had been then, stretched between the slim blades of her shoulders as she had hugged him tightly; the bright green flush of her eyes when she had smiled shyly at him.

Two of the teenagers, Hermione and the red-headed boy whose name Robert simply couldn't recall, though he tried, were seated in the soft sunlight besides the little tent at the base of the garden. His arms were tightly laced around her as she sobbed; his freckled face pressed against hers, and as she leaned weakly against him, Catherine was overcome by a sadness and regret she couldn't explain. _If she is my daughter_, she thought, _then this is just one of so many moments I have missed. _If she was Catherine's daughter, then Catherine had already missed the excited conversations about her first date, and if she had missed that, what else had already happened without her?

As Robert and Catherine approached, the boy looked up at them, anger colouring his features, though he held his tongue.

"We've discussed this," Robert said uncertainly, confused by the expanse of words he was thinking of yet had no way of stringing together in the right way. "And we believe you. But we'd like a thorough explanation, of everything, if that's all right with you?"

Hermione sniffed in affirmation and the boy – Ron, _that_ was his name! – lifted her to her feet, just as Robert had lifted Catherine moments before, making Robert wonder if the tenderness that crossed Ron's features was present on his own. Together the four of them entered the tent, and though Robert privately wondered how all of them would fit inside such a tiny thing, he did not voice this. Instead, he gasped as the interior revealed itself to resemble a little flat, complete with kitchen and living area.

"How…?" he began, and when the rest of the sentence did not form but melted upon his tongue, he simply left it at that. There was a loud flushing and Harry emerged from a little room, his hands at his fly and he turned crimson when he realised Robert and Catherine were looking at him.

"You have a toilet?" asked Catherine weakly, and he nodded and sat down.

"Why don't we all sit down?" said Ron with an air of apparent calm. "And then we can explain everything."

**~ OoOoO ~**

It took several hours, but by the time evening had streaked the sky above, staining it damask and indigo, Robert and Catherine felt as though their heads would simply crumple under the weight of all that they had been told. Harry had begun speaking at first, but once Hermione had found her voice she had seemed to find it impossible to stop, and she spared no details.

"And once Mr Wrottesley gave us your address, it didn't take us long to find you," she said now, her voice a little hoarse after its exertions. "We travelled here about four days ago, and camped in the garden. Originally we put a Disillusionment Charm over the tent, so that you wouldn't see us and we wouldn't scare you, but yesterday we forgot to do it properly and you noticed us. And I suppose that's everything up until yesterday, when you spoke to us."

"How do you know it's safe that you've found us again?" asked Robert suddenly. "How do you know for sure nothing will happen to any of us?"

"We don't," said Harry. "But the main danger's gone. There's no guarantee anyone is safe, but it's about as safe as it can be right now."

"And besides," added Ron. "No one can ever say they're a hundred per cent safe anyway. You could get hit by a bus or something tomorrow."

"Ron!" Hermione glared at him. His face was a mask of pure bemusement - he didn't say a word but Robert smirked inwardly at the _what-did-I-do?_ expression he wore.

"Well," said Catherine brightly, determined to get to know her daughter. "What are you three planning on doing now that it's all over?"

"I'm going back to school," said Hermione. "I didn't get to finish my last year and I need to if I want to get my NEWTs – NEWTs are like A-Levels," she added, catching her father's blank look. "Once I've graduated properly I want to join the Ministry of Magic, but I'm not really sure what I want to do other than that."

"And you two," Catherine asked, turning to face Harry and Ron. "Are you going to go back to school, too?"

"Nah," said Harry. "I think we've got all the skills we're gonna need. I want to be an Auror – someone who hunts down Dark Wizards – so I'm just gonna try and join the Ministry too."

Ron nodded in agreement. "Me too," he said.

"But I thought you said the Ministry called you a liar," said Robert, confused. "You said it was their fault no one believed that Voldy-Whatsit was back – how can you all want to work for them?"

"It's all being overhauled," said Hermione. "It's been in all the wizarding newspapers for weeks now. They announced Kingsley Shacklebolt as the new Minister for Magic last month."

"And he's better?"

"He's brilliant," said Ron and Harry together.

"He's making enormous changes to everything," added Hermione. "Getting rid of all the evils of the last few years, changing laws, things like that. He's far better than the last two Ministers ever were."

"Well," said Catherine at last, getting to her feet. "It's getting late. Would you like to join us for dinner? It's only a bit of lamb, nothing amaz -"

"We'd love to," cut in Ron quickly, just as Harry and Hermione were politely declining. He ignored their stares, and Hermione stepped on his foot and looked her mother in the eyes.

"We'd love to," she repeated. "If it's not too much trouble."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all," said Catherine, and the little group made their way back across the garden towards the house. As they walk, Ron hissed in Hermione's ear.

"Stop giving me evils – anything's got to be better than tinned beans and ham slices again! And I can't remember the last time I ate something _hot_."

Hermione didn't answer, but squeezed his hand until he gasped. And when her parents looked back to find the source of the noise, she simply smiled serenely.

**~ OoOoO ~**

Eleven days later, the three of them were still camping out in the Granger's garden, and moods had greatly improved. Catherine and Robert insisted that the trio join them for lunch _and_ dinner every night, which Ron in particular was grateful for; she had proven to be an even better cook than Molly Weasley.

Every night so far, Ron and Harry retreated to the tent after dinner, leaving Hermione alone with her parents. It was an entirely unspoken agreement, and none of them had mentioned it but the gratitude was clear in Hermione's eyes. She seemed happier in herself, and now when she smiled there wasn't a half second before her eyes remembered to look happy too; she positively beamed.

The two of them were lying here now, sprawled across the floor of the tent and playing Exploding Snap as they talked.

"How long d'you reckon before she asks us to move over here permanently?" asked Harry, grinning as he placed a card down carefully.

"I dunno," said Ron, "But I'll find it hard to say no if she does – it's lovely here. Talk about being born in the wrong country!"

"She can't stay here much longer anyway," said Harry. "The new term starts in a few weeks, and you know she'll want to buy half of Flourish and Blotts so she's prepared."

"Oh _no_," groaned Ron. "She'll be even worse than usual – she's not done any studying for over a year, she'll go into overdrive."

"Well, you're the one who's got to listen to it," laughed Harry. "Sure you don't want to go back to being just her friend?"

"No way," said Ron, suddenly serious. "It took me long enough to get to this point – somehow I don't think she'll take me back once she's left school properly."

Their conversation was cut short suddenly by a flapping of wings; a beautiful tawny owl had entered the tent, large eyes shining as it swooped over their heads and landed in a flurry of feathers on the floor beside them. It dropped a little bag in front of Harry – he opened it to find three large envelopes slotted inside. The owl fluttered over to perch on the sofa, clearly awaiting a response.

The letters were addressed to each of them respectively, with flowing green ink announcing their exact address, right down to the location of the tent at the bottom of the Granger's garden.

Harry opensed his carefully and scanned the letter twice before he could take anything in.

_Harry, _

_I hope this letter reaches you safe and well. _

_First of all I want to commend you for the bravery, initiative , and unwavering loyalty you have shown this past year, and to inform you that it has been decided by the Ministry that such strength of character merits an Order of Merlin, First Class. Congratulations!_

_As I am sure you are aware, several large changes are being made to the Ministry, within and outside of it. This is not a simple task, and will require a lot of work, work which I hope you will agree to partake in. I've been told you hope to become an Auror, and this coupled with the skill and initiative you have shown countless times is why I write to you now. I believe that you will be a valuable asset to the Ministry, and a great help in locating the remaining Dark wizards who are still at large. _

_You do not, of course, have to decide immediately – I will speak to you at a later point when you have had time to think over my offer. I know you're in Australia right now - Mrs Weasley filled me in, and I hope everything is going well - but please let me know when you are ready to return home and I will arrange your transportation. _

_Once again, congratulations, and I hope to see you soon. _

_Yours, _

_Kingsley Shacklebolt_

Harry's heart felt as though it would burst in his chest. Hardly daring to breathe he looked up at Ron, to see a similar expression of incredulity warping his features.

"They want me to be an Auror," breathed Ron, as if speaking too loudly would make the words false. "An _Auror_! Me!"

"Me too," said Harry, a grin splitting his face. "Are you gonna do it, d'you think?"

"Are you mad?" cried Ron. "Of course I'm gonna do it!"

"Well," conceded Harry. "I suppose nothing can be worse than what we've already faced, can it?"

"Exactly!" said Ron, fizzing with excitement. "Wait till I tell Mum, she won't shut up about it for _weeks_, it'll be even better than when Bill got his job at Gringotts – and she'll be the same for you, of course. She won't be comparing my OWLs to Percy's anymore once she hears I've got an Order of Merlin!"

"What d'you think is in Hermione's letter?" Harry asked, eyeing up the unopened envelope that lay on the floor still.

Ron sobered immediately. "I dunno," he said. "Only one way to find out though, isn't there?"

And stooping to the floor, he scooped it up and headed towards the flap of the tent. "Come on," he says, and then he was marching back towards the little house, clutching the little envelope as though his life depended on it.

**~ OoOoO~ **

_Dear Hermione, _

_I hope that this letter reaches you happy and well. _

_First of all, I would like to thank you for all your efforts over the past year. There is no doubt in my mind that without your support and help, Harry would not have been as successful as he has been, and therefore the Ministry has agreed that your actions merit an Order of Merlin, First Class. Congratulations!_

_As I am sure you will know, I am in the process of overhauling the entire Ministry. This is no easy task, there are several wrongs that need correcting urgently, and I hope that you will agree to play a part in this. I've heard about your campaigning for the rights of house elves whilst at school – there is a position open in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, which I think you would be perfect for. I believe your compassion and skill would make you an invaluable asset both to the Ministry and to me. _

_I'm told that you're in Australia right now – Mrs Weasley has filled me in on why – and I wish you luck in your search. When you are ready to come home, please let me know as soon as possible so that I can arrange transportation back home for you, and for your parents, of course. _

_I hope to hear from you soon. Take care._

_Yours, _

_Kingsley Shacklebolt_

By the time Hermione had finished reading the words for the third time, her hands were shaking beyond measure. She sat down slowly, glad of the reassuring solidarity of the plump armchair, and when she lifted her eyes to the little group around her she could see that their expressions ranged from polite interest (Harry) and confusion (her parents) to complete and utter impatience (Ron).

"It's from Kingsley," she said when she found her voice once more. "He – he offered me a job with the Ministry."

The rest of her sentence was drowned by a loud whooping noise from Ron. "Brilliant!" he cried. "You'll be with me and Harry – he wrote to us too!"

But Hermione was shaking her head. "I can't take this job," she said. "What about school? What about finishing my education?"

"You don't _need_ to finish your education, Hermione," Ron said slowly, as if she was struggling to understand English. "What's the point in wasting your time getting more qualifications that you don't even _need_, when you've just been offered a job without even trying?"

"Oh, for heaven's _sake_, Ron!" Hermione snapped, her temper getting the better of her before she remembered her parents were sitting opposite her.

"Maybe he'll let you take the job next year, when you've finished?" Harry suggested quickly. "It's not even a year, really."

Hermione smiled now. "That's brilliant, Harry!" she said, not seeing Ron's dark looks. "I'll owl him back straight away."

**~ OoOoO ~**

Harry headed off to bed early that night, so that when Hermione emerged from the little bathroom, rubbing her hair with a towel, only Ron was left sitting in the living area, waiting for her. He patted the squashy blue cushion of the seat next to him on the sofa, and smiled when she sat beside him.

"Are you okay?" Hermione asked jovially. "You've been really quiet all day, ever since I got my letter."

Ron nodded, staring quietly at the floor, his fingers wrapped around hers so easily it took a moment for her to realise they were there.

"Ron?" Hermione prompted, knowing there was a reason why he was so sullen. He didn't lift his eyes from the floor.

"I don't see why you had to snap at me," he muttered, and Hermione frowned.

"Snap at you?" she repeated. "When did I snap at you?"

"Earlier."

"_When?"_

"When I was saying you don't need to finish your education - "

"Because you were being ridiculous, Ron!" Hermione said hotly. "Of course I need to finish - "

"Why?" asked Ron, and he finally looked at her, his voice so open and honest, the question so genuine, that it took her by surprise. There was no hostility in his voice, and Hermione was unsure how to react.

"Because - " she spluttered, fumbling clumsily for the threads of her argument. "Because I need to be fully qualified, because I want to complete my NEWTS and not just drop out - "

"Is that what you think we're doing then, me and Harry?" said Ron, his eyes flashing dangerously. "'Dropping out'?"

"No, of _course_ not," Hermione said, but Ron cuts in too quickly.

"Then why say it?"

"Because – I mean – you -" Hermione gabbled, and then she cried out. "I can't deal with this right now, Ron! This whole last year has been horrible for me – the worst year of my life, if I'm honest." She threw Ron's hand from her and counted off on her fingers. "I've lost my parents and had to find them again, I've been on the run, I've had to fight countless times, I've been bloody _tortured_, I've seen Harry's _dead body_, not to mention all the other people I care about dying, and now you don't even support me wanting to go back to Hogwarts. I just want something that feels _normal_ again! Something I know, something solid – I don't want to go straight into some job, where I won't know anything or anyone!"

Ron simply gaped, stunned, as Hermione's voice finally cracked beneath the weight of the words she was saying and she crumpled in his arms. "I'm sorry," he said at last, into her hair, and she smiled through her tears as his warm breath tickledher scalp. "I didn't know, I'm sorry."

He tipped her face gently up to his and wiped away her tears with the edge of his thumb.

"You should have told me," he said, and she nodded. "How can I help you if I don't know what you're feeling? You know I'm useless," he continued, and she laughed in agreement this time. "I'm sorry I got so annoyed with you. I was just really looking forward to the idea of us all working together, that's all."

"I know," breathed Hermione, and she tilted her head forward once more, so that her lips brushed against his, so that she didn't care about their fight anymore. His face quickly became wet with the salt of her tears as they kissed, but he didn't notice because she tasted of cool spring rain and strawberries. He hugged her tightly to him so that the beating of her heart seemed to race against his own, so that he could inhale the passion fruit scent of her hair.

"I have a confession," he said, gasping slightly, when at last they broke apart. "I don't want you to go back to Hogwarts."

"Why?" Hermione asked, her eyes wide with confusion.

"I'll miss you too much," Ron said, and he felt his heart catch in his chest once more as her eyes softened.

"You selfish git," she said, but there was laughter in her eyes, and he knew he was forgiven. "You'll still see me loads. I'll come back every holiday."

"You'd better," he said seriously.

"Oh really? Why's that?"

"Because if you don't," Ron said slowly, and then he kissed her again, until the tips of her fingers fizzed and her lips tingled. "I'll never do that again."

**~ OoOoO ~**

"Are you _sure_ you've got everything?" Hermione asked for the fiftieth time – and Ron should know, he was keeping count.

"For the last time, YES," he said, zipping his rucksack shut with a little more ferocity than he originally intended. "And yes," he added quickly, intercepting her second most repeated question of the day. "I still have the Floo Powder – it's in the packet, in my pocket."

Kingsley had been true to his word. Three days after receiving their acceptance letters, he wrote back once more, informing them that he had connected the Granger's home temporarily with the Floo Network, and that a contact of his, Albert Grunnings, would be dropping by to give them the necessary Floo Powder. Now, four days later, it was Sunday night and Harry and Ron were poised to return home to England, their new duties as Aurors commencing next week.

A second letter was also addressed to Hermione.

_Hermione,_

_I will keep the position open until you've finished at Hogwarts, so don't worry about that. I should have realised you would want to complete your education!_

_I'm pleased to hear you managed to locate your parents - you say you are having difficulty lifting the Memory Charm. I have an excellent contact in the Australian Ministry, a charming woman named Aurora Stapley. She is an expert in restoring magically blocked memories – she has written several theorems and papers on the subject – and I have made you an appointment with her on Monday 7th_ _October. If anyone can help you, Aurora Stapley can!_

_I have arranged for Ron and Harry to come home on Sunday 6th_ _October, because I need them to begin immediately – I will keep the Floo Network connected to your parents house so that you can come home when you are ready. _

_Thanks again, and good luck!_

_Kingsley _

"Okay," Hermione said, and then she pulled Ron into a wordless hug, making sure that she remembered the feel of his arms slipped tightly around her, because she wouldn't be feeling them for at least a week, if not longer. Harry poked his head around the door.

"Are you ready?" he asked, and they nodded, still clutching each other. "Come on then."

Five minutes later, they were all huddled around the Granger's fireplace, Ron and Harry carrying all of the trio's supplies, since Hermione would be sleeping in her parents' home from now on. Harry took a pinch of the powder and flung it into the fire, which crackled and turned emerald. Waving goodbye, he stepped into the fireplace and said loudly, "The Burrow!", and with that he disappeared.

Catherine shrieked – she had been warned what to expect, but all the same it was very unsettling actually watching someone walk into an enormous green fire and vanish. She was still surprised even as she watched Ron kiss Hermione goodbye and do exactly as Harry did moments before.

* * *

**~ OoOoO ~**

"Excuse me," Hermione said politely to the witch behind the desk, although her eyes were like flint – this woman would not be rude to her a second time, not today. The witch looked up briefly from painting her nails a bright fuchsia pink and Hermione smiled tightly. "I need to see Aurora Stapley, please."

"Miss Stapley is very busy," said the witch, and Hermione noticed for the first time how brittle her voice sounded. "No visits without an appointment."

"I have an appointment," Hermione said, and was pleased to watch the woman's supercilious _Oh really?_ expression fade away with her next words. "Kingsley Shacklebolt, the British Minister for Magic, booked me one."

The witch chewed her bottom lip and rolled her eyes. "Fifth floor," she finally said, spitting the words out as if they were a bad taste she wanted to rinse from her mouth.

She led Catherine and Robert over to the little lift and pressed a thick golden button. Catherine was practically fizzing with nervousness; her nails had been bitten down to the quick, and she had said barely a word all morning. Robert was quiet too; occasionally he smiled at Hermione in what he clearly thought was a bracing way, as if trying to reassure her that he was fine.

Aurora Stapley turned out to be a much younger woman than Hermione had imagined – she appeared to be about thirty-five, with long blonde hair and wide green eyes that sparkled when she smiled. She ushered them into her office as soon as she saw them emerge from the elevator, which Hermione was thankful for because the floor it spat them out on was positively crammed with witches and wizards.

"Come in, come in," she said, sweeping them into chairs. "Drink?" When all three shook their head she smiled once more and offered her hand for each of them to shake.

"Now," she said, managing to be brisk without being rude. "Kingsley told me all about your situation, and I think I can help you. How long ago was the charm placed?"

"Over a year ago," Hermione said. "Last July."

"Ah," said Aurora. "I can see why you're reluctant to attempt to lift it yourself – these things can be tricky at the best of times, and they're even worse when they've strengthened."

"Do you think you can lift it?" asked Catherine, and Aurora smiled kindly at her.

"I believe I can, Mrs Wilkins – or should I say Granger?"

"Granger," said Robert firmly. "That's what we'll be calling ourselves if this works, so we'll start as we mean to go on."

"Now, I should warn you," said Aurora. "I will only be restoring memories that have been locked away – you will remember this entire year. When a Memory Charm is placed upon you, it does not delete the memories, as was previously thought – it simply makes them inaccessible unless specifically sought, which, of course, you wouldn't do, as you would have no reason to. Am I making sense?"

"Yes," breathed Hermione; Catherine and Robert simply nodded.

"Okay," said Aurora. "Well, let's begin straight away. Mrs Granger, Mr Granger, could you stand up please? Face me…good… and look directly at me – don't blink, if you can. Okay? Ready?"

Catherine nodded; Aurora pulled out her wand and pointed it directly at the two of them, huddled close together. She performed a complicated wiggle, crying loudly as she did so, "_Restituo_ _Monumentum!", _and Catherine's eyes rolled back in her head; Robert's head snapped forward to rest upon his chest.

"Mum?" cried Hermione. "Dad?"

Catherine rolled her eyes slowly back, turning them until they rested upon her daughter, and then she smiled.

"Hermione," she said.


	5. And His Hair Smells of Walnuts

_**~ Chapter Five - His Hair Smells of Walnuts ~ **_

It had been a week since Aurora managed to lift the Memory Charm from Robert and Catherine, although she warned them that there were still some memories which would remain buried until recalled once more – the charm had been very strong, and what was left of their hidden memories would only be recovered by accident.

"I don't know precisely what I'm looking for, you see," she explained kindly, passing Catherine a tissue to wipe her streaming eyes. "But I think I've managed to recover about ninety per cent of what was buried – remember, it's a _lot_ to recall. My advice would be to take things slowly – let yourself acclimatise to this, it's all very new, after all."

That, however, was not Catherine's intention at all. Now that she could recall, for the most part, that Hermione was her daughter, she was determined not to let their new 'fake' (as she now insisted on calling it) life overtake their old one, which she wished to resume as soon as possible. They had already begun by completely dropping their assumed names altogether and (more so Catherine than Robert) badgering Hermione for photographs and letters in a bid to inspire further memories of their old life. Robert was not particularly bothered either way – he insisted that all he would miss about living in Perth was the fact that Christmas dinner could be barbecued steak instead of an enormous sweating turkey – but he would go wherever his girls would be happiest, and Catherine had decided that they would begin by going home.

So now, a week later, the three of them were preparing to return to England; the house in Perth had been put up for sale and Catherine and Robert had decided that they would stay in a hotel until they managed to find a new home. Robert would have quite liked to return to their old house, and he kept mentioning this fact rather hopefully, but Catherine kept pointing out, rather waspishly by the fifteenth less-than-subtle hint of Robert's, that it had been over a year, and that there was very little chance, therefore, of their house having been put back on the market.

"Now, how do I do this again?" asked Catherine for what (to Hermione) felt like the millionth time that hour. She caught her daughter's expression and frowned. "Well, I don't want to get it wrong and end up God-only-knows where!"

"It's really very easy, Mum," said Hermione, her tongue tripping over the last word as she said it, still unused to calling Catherine that again. "You saw Ron and Harry do it last week – I'll go last just in case, but you just pinch a bit between your fingers, throw it in the fire, and say where you want to go, very clearly. It's _the Burrow_," she added exasperatedly, catching her father's confused expression. "Right – who's going first? Mum?"

Catherine's eyes were as flat as discs, but she pinched some of the fine green powder between her thumb and forefinger and flung it into the fireplace, flinching slightly as the flames roared and climbed higher. "The B-Burrow!" she said, trying to ignore the feel of the flames licking at her tensed body, and then all of a sudden everything went dark, her daughter's smiling face had disappeared and she was spinning, sent tumbling through the deep black – and then without knowing quite how she found herself sprawled on her hands and knees, a large freckly hand extended to her.

"Hello, Mrs Granger," said the owner of the hand cheerfully, who she eventually recognised as Ron. He pulled her carefully to her feet, just as the fireplace spat out her husband. "And Mr Granger."

"Don't just stand there, Ron, get Mr and Mrs Granger chairs!" bustled a red-haired woman who Catherine vaguely recognised as Ron's mother. She shook Catherine and Robert's hands firmly and seemed to manage to greet them, sweep them to the table and fill their waiting plates with a kind of thick stew at the same time as pouring something hot and steaming into their mugs. "Now, I know this is all rather overwhelming for you both, but you're more than welcome to stay here until everything is all sorted out, and my husband and I will help you as far as possible – just ask."

She smiled reassuringly at the two of them, and Catherine could feel the warmth emanating from it on her face. Her eyes were kind but surrounded with deep lines of what could only be stress and worry, and Catherine felt herself inexplicably drawn to this woman.

"Thank you," she breathed, and her breath suddenly caught in her throat. This was all too much to take in at once. Her eyes filled with tears and Robert reached for her hand, just as Hermione climbed out of the fireplace, brushing soot and dust from her knees and her hair, Crookshanks wrapping himself firmly around her legs.

**~ OoOoO ~**

_Later that evening..._

"I know you hate travelling by Floo Powder, Mum, but it really is the quickest way to get to Diagon Alley," said Hermione, sitting up in bed. "The tube would take forever. And it's easier than carrying all my supplies back, too."

Her mother was perched at the end of her bed. The Burrow had always been swollen with occupants, but even with two more people here now it somehow seemed emptier than usual. Ron, Harry and George were staying in Ron's room so that the Grangers could take George's, comparatively more comfortable, room; Hermione, as always, was staying in Ginny's room; but Bill, Charlie and Percy all no longer lived here, and Fred, of course, no longer lived anywhere. Hermione had been careful not to breathe his name in front of any of the Weasleys – Mrs Weasley and Ginny simply burst into tears, whereas Ron and George simply tightened their mouths and walked out of the room.

"Do you have to go back to school, Hermione?" asked Catherine honestly, speaking quickly so that she did not lose her nerve and stop saying the words that she had been fumbling over for days now. Ginny got up suddenly, mumbling something about needing the toilet, and disappeared from the little bedroom; Hermione just looked at her mother.

"Mum…" she began carefully, but Catherine continued to speak.

"I know I'm being selfish, and I know you want to get your qualifications. You've always been like that," she smiled. "But all I keep thinking is that if you'd never gone in the first place, if you'd ignored that letter, then you wouldn't have had to do what you did."

Her eyes were so sad, bright in the darkness, that for a moment Hermione felt herself agreeing with her mother, but reason soon brought her back to the truth.

"Maybe not," she said evenly, "but everything else would still have happened. We might still have ended up being targeted – and Harry might not have been able to defeat him either."

There was an uneasy silence in which Catherine weighed up all the things she wanted to say, sifting them around on her tongue. She recalled suddenly an instance when Hermione was a baby - only months old, really. She remembered holding her baby daughter and staring deep into her eyes, marvelling at the way the burnt amber of them was identical to Robert's and yet entirely different, the way they seemed to flash with quiet defiance as Catherine tried to feed her when she wasn't hungry.

"I know why you felt you had to send us away, Hermione," said Catherine, staring straight into her daughter's eyes. "And I even understand why you erased our memories - sort of. But I don't think I'll ever understand why you didn't go into hiding with us."

Her sorrowful tone was too much for Hermione to bear, and she bit her lip as tears started in her eyes. "Of course I wanted to," she said, pulling her knees up to her chest so that she could rest her arms, and in turn her face, on them. "Almost every night when we were on the run I thought about running away here and finding you again, just hiding and not having to deal with any of this, ever again. But I couldn't have just abandoned Harry like that. I had to erase your memories so that you could never be a target - so that even if you were somehow found you wouldn't know anything anyway. I'm sorry I did what I did, but at the same time, I'm not sorry at all, because if I hadn't, well...we might all be dead now."

"Look," said Catherine, gripping her daughter's hand suddenly. "I lost a year with you – more than a year, and all I've heard from you is things a mother should never have to hear her daughter has been through, _ever_. And we've only just got you back, and already you want to go away again. It's just…it's difficult, okay?"

"Oh, Mum," said Hermione. She looked very young and very tired all of a sudden. "Please don't do this – please don't make me stay. I want to, I really want to, but I need to do this, Mum. How can we get back to normal if I don't?"

Catherine didn't say anything. She didn't need to; she could feel the truth weighing down on her and, acknowledging defeat, she forced a smile to her face. "You always were too smart for your own good," she breathed, holding a free hand to her daughter's face. "I want you to do what makes you happy. After everything you've said happened this year…you just, you deserve to be happy."

Hermione couldn't find words big enough for everything she wanted to say, so her mouth merely formed silently around the shapes of words too simple for what she felt.

_Thank you._

**~ OoOoO ~**

"Can we _please_ sit down?" begged Ron, pouting a little. "You've already bought enough to start your own shop, Hermione, so please can we sit down? Pretty please?

"I just want to have another look in Flourish and Blotts," Hermione told him, trying to ignore the perfect tragic expression that crossed his features as he digested this information. "I'm sure there's another book on the list that I missed."

"But – I'm _starving_!" he cried. He indicated the many bags he carried. "And I'm not a pack-horse. I don't have any more limbs for you to hang bags off of."

"There's always your nose," came Harry's quick reply, furnished with a grin. Ron tried to swing a bag at his friend's head but Harry dodged it easily and Ron nearly tumbled over with the force of his swing.

"Come on," said Robert, catching Ron and setting him upright once more. "Ron's right, Hermione – you've got everything now. Let's find a café or a restaurant somewhere – my treat."

Hermione tried not to laugh at the way Ron's eyes lit up at these words. Never mind the fact that he had seconds at breakfast, courtesy of Catherine's excellent cooking – she insisted on preparing breakfast, as a way of thanking Mrs Weasley for her kindness. The five of them – Robert, Catherine, Hermione, Ron, and Harry - left Diagon Alley, Hermione slipping her many bags into the little beaded bag she always kept with her and immediately standing straighter now that the weight had been lifted, and eventually found a little Muggle Italian restaurant.

"So, when do you two start your jobs?" asked Robert, winding strands of spaghetti around his fork and looking at Ron and Harry.

"Er, next week," said Ron; Harry nodded in agreement.

"Are you nervous?" asked Robert, wiping a spot of sauce from his stubbly chin.

"I don't know what I'm doing yet," said Harry. "So I don't know how nervous to be."

"But you've already done a lot of what they'll probably want you to do," said Hermione reasonably. "You should both get through training quite easily – you've done concealment, disguises, stealth, quick-thinking."

She lifted a hand and counted off their experience on her fingers. Ron looked rather pleased by her assessment of their respective skills. Catherine, throughout this exchange, stayed quiet, looking pensively at Ron over the edge of her wine glass. She narrowed her eyes a little at him, unnoticed, and thinking hard. Fragments of memory were playing in her mind, speaking in her daughter's voice, and she gave voice to some of them lest they be deleted forever.

"His hair smells like new parchment and walnuts," she said dreamily, her fingertips flirting with the top edge of her wine glass, and when everyone else's face snapped to hers she realised too late how loudly she said it.

"Pardon?" asked Robert pleasantly, and Catherine repeated herself, ignoring Hermione's intense expression.

"Whose hair?" asked Harry bemusedly, and Hermione aimed a kick at him under the table, catching him by surprise and making him choke on a meatball.

"No-one's," she said, ignoring Harry's spluttering as Ron thudded him on the back, and she pulled apart a piece of garlic bread distractedly. "So, Dad, when do you think you'll be able to go back to work?"

"No, no," said Catherine, breaking across Hermione's firm words and destroying her attempt at a subject change, "I remember…you said his hair smells like new parchment and walnuts…and that arguing is good because he challenges you…and that you're sick of being just friends- "

"Mum!" cried Hermione, mortified. "Enough!"

She lowered her gaze to her plate of food, her cheeks burning even as Catherine realised her mistake and changed the subject hastily, asking Harry about his plans for Christmas.

Ron poked her leg under the table and winked at her, smiling smugly and looking extremely pleased with himself. Hermione simply glared back at him, trying to ignore him. She could quite happily have killed him just then.

**~ OoOoO ~**

"Are you coming to the station tomorrow, Harry?" asked Hermione, folding her new robes again. She threw the words casually over her shoulder as she stooped to pick up a fallen sock.

She and Ginny were beginning their new year at Hogwarts tomorrow – all older students who had decided to repeat their seventh year had been condensed into Ginny's year, partly because there weren't too many of them, and partly because it made life easier for all concerned. Privately, Hermione was glad – she had been worrying about studying without her friends around her, but she would be with Ginny and Luna, among others. Tonight, she was double-checking she had packed everything whilst everyone else helped Mrs Weasley and Catherine cook the celebratory meal – a double celebration, marking Hermione and Ginny's return to Hogwarts and Ron and Harry's new job.

Hermione realised Harry had joined her even before she heard the click of the door closing behind him. She smiled before she turned to meet him; he would have to work on his stealth a little more.

"Mrs Weasley ironed you some more robes," he said, handing them to her. "And, yeah, course I'm coming," he added. "I'm saying bye to Ginny as well, aren't I?"

Hermione smiled softly at him. "When are you two going to sort things out?"

Harry snorted. "Oh, yeah, because _you're_ such an expert on sorting things out!"

"Well, I can't argue with that, can I?" Hermione grinned. "But I _did_ sort things out with Ron – even if it did take me years to do it. You're not planning on taking years, are you?" she added, mock-worriedly. Harry laughed thinly.

"I hope not," he said, passing her a textbook. "It's complicated though."

"Well, I'm not going to nag you – oh, _very _funny, Harry, stop acting so surprised!" She threw the topmost robe at him; he caught it deftly in his left hand. "I'm not going to nag you, but I will if you don't start being nicer to me."

Harry drew a circle in the air above his head, indicating his imaginary halo, and Hermione smiled.

"It's only complicated if you drag it out. You like her, she likes you. And there's no war now, so you can't use being noble as an excuse for being a coward either. Just get it over with."

"Maybe I'll go talk to her after dinner. Will that do?"

"I suppose," said Hermione, frowning at her trunk as she pulled fistfuls of robes from it, trying to arrange them properly. "It was nice seeing you happy."

"Thanks," Harry said, and Hermione smiled.

"You're welcome."

"No, I mean, really – _thanks_," Harry said, and then he had wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a tight hug. "For everything you've done for me."

Hermione was taken by surprise but she hugged him back. Normally she was the one who impulsively handed out hugs or kisses – she had never known Harry to do this. "Don't worry about it," she said. "It's all done now, anyway."

"I'm glad I could help you find your parents, Hermione," he said, pulling back after a few seconds. "Feels like I've paid you back a bit, you know?"

"You don't need to pay - "

"Yes, I do," said Harry firmly. "You _and_ Ron – I couldn't have done anything without you two. I would've died years ago."

Hermione didn't know what to say. Long moments hung suspended in the air between them, so that her mouth was full of awkward broken sentences. "Go and find Ginny," she told him eventually. "Before it's too late."

Harry nodded, hugged her to him one last time, and then disappeared from the room, leaving Hermione to her packing. Barely four minutes had slipped by when she heard the click of the lock again, and she didn't bother to turn around as she spoke.

"That was quick, Harry!"

"So my hair smells of walnuts, does it?"

Hermione closed her eyes in embarrassment as she recognised the laughter in the voice. _If I hadn't just found Mum again, I'd be really tempted to kill her for this_. She didn't turn around, and so Ron took this as a cue to continue speaking in a sing-song voice.

"And you like arguing with me, do you?"

By now he had crossed the room and was standing behind her; she could feel his breath on the nape of her neck. She turned slowly, revolving on the spot to face him, and he smiled when she does so.

"I like your mum," he grinned, and she poked his ribs, hard.


	6. Trying to Find the Right Words

_**~ Chapter Six – Finding The Right Words ~ **_

_9th November 1998_

_Ron, _

_Thanks for seeing me off at the station – I know you didn't really want to! I thought I'd wait a bit before I started writing – I did start composing a letter to you on the train, but realised that might look a bit keen, so I restrained myself. _

_How are you, anyway? It's so weird having to ask you that. Normally I don't need to, because I can see it on your face, or because I'm feeling the same. It's so strange not being able to talk to you whenever I like. I keep thinking of something funny, and wanting to tell you about it at stupid times like the middle of the night, and then I remember that I can't. I got so used to being able to talk to you whenever without even realising it. I know I spent most of our last year here ignoring you and going out of my way _not _to talk to you, but that was completely different. You were actually _here _to not be spoken to. Now I don't have a choice, and I hate it. I'm half tempted to send you a Howler, just for something more normal. _

_It's lovely being back. The first day was awful though; there was a minute's silence after the Sorting, and loads of people started crying. Ginny and I visited the little graveyard Professor McGonagall was talking about. It looks really beautiful – you couldn't have asked for a nicer memorial spot. I've never seen so many people be so quiet in one place. And I can see Thestrals now. I don't know whether or not to be pleased about it though – I know I told you and Harry I wanted to see them, but now that I've had the experience I wish I didn't have to, because if I couldn't see them then none of it really happened. Or does that sound stupid?_

_The lessons are as I expected – though Defence Against The Dark Arts suddenly seems a lot easier than before! But there is definitely a real atmosphere in the castle now – people are quieter, somehow. Even the Slytherins don't seem as cocky as usual – believe it or not, most of them keep themselves to themselves, and their table is the quietest at mealtimes. Or maybe it's just the absence of Malfoy? I miss you and Harry so much. Ginny's been amazing so far – she says hi, by the way, and also did she leave her eagle feather quill in your room? – but she isn't you, either of you, even if she _does _look like you (don't worry, I think you're prettier). And it's so weird being back and knowing I don't need to sneak around, I don't need to hold secret illegal meetings and rebel against the teachers (okay, so maybe I never really did the last one, but you get my meaning). I'm tempted to set off some __pranks, just to make up for it!_

_Anyway, how is your new job going? Sometimes I half wish I'd accepted mine this year instead, because then I'd be at home with you, but I suppose I'd still not see you very much, since you got the exciting job and I got the boring desk-and-paperwork one! I bet sometimes you wish you'd come back, though – I'm sure Potions homework is a lot easier than hunting down dark wizards. _

_By the way, I meant to tell you something before we left for the station, but everything got so crazy that I just didn't get the chance. Actually, I meant to tell you it for months before then, but I can't blame not doing it on not having the opportunity. I was just being cowardly. But if I write it down, then I can pretend I didn't, because I don't have to watch your face when I say it. And I'm rambling now, so I'll just say it – thank you, for everything. I've never thanked you, not properly, for coming back. I was so worried the entire time you were away – all I kept thinking was "What if he's caught, or we're killed, and I never got to tell him how I feel, I never once told him and the last time I saw him we were all fighting?" And that's why I got so furious when you _did _come back, because I'd spent so much time in tears with worry over you, and you just strolled casually back in, and I didn't know how else to react. Actually, if I'm apologising for attacking you, I might as well get two apologies in – I'm sorry I set those birds on you, but in my defence, Lavender was very annoying, and you were being the most obnoxious, not to mention oblivious, idiot ever, and it seemed like a great idea at the time. She's here now, by the way – she and Parvati are in a dormitory Ginny, a girl called Wynn, and me. That made for a very awkward meeting on the first day back! She hasn't said anything to me yet, though – she just gave me a funny look and started talking very loudly to Parvati about some boy she's seeing called Marvin._

_Talking of exes, can you please hit Harry for me if he's not written or spoken to Ginny yet? Don't worry; I'm going to hit her too, because she's being just as stupid about all this. I know you're a bit against them getting back together, because of what happened before, but I also know that they were a lot happier when they were together, and you may be a grumpy bugger at times but I don't think you're quite miserable enough not to want your best friend and your little sister to be happy. _

_Anyway, Christmas will be here soon, and I'll be seeing you again, so if they haven't sorted things out in the next month, we can just kill them both and be happy. I can't wait to see you again. I know we'll both still be really busy – we both know I'll be bringing school work with me, old habits die hard – but still, it'll be lovely knowing that you're there to talk to if I want to, among other things. Not long now!_

_All my love, _

_Hermione_

_Xxxxxx_

_PS: Stop sending me packets of walnuts – it's not funny anymore!_

**~ OoOoO ~**

_13th_ _November 1998_

_My darling Hermione, _

_How's school going? I hope it's not too different now that your friends aren't there._

_Your father and I are so proud of you, Hermione, for everything you've achieved. I know we didn't necessarily agree with the decision you made last year, but when I think about it, I can still only be proud of you, even if I wish it hadn't had to be like that. You managed not only to create new lives for us, but hide us so completely from danger even you had trouble finding us once again, and you still came back for us, even though it was difficult. I know you'll graduate with no problems whatsoever – I have absolutely no doubt in your abilities. _

_I wanted to apologise for what happened in the restaurant, by the way. I didn't mean to embarrass you – I know, I know, that's what all mums say, right? – but it's just that I was looking at Ron, and it finally clicked that all these years you've been talking about a Ron, and this must be him. I know it sounds stupid of me, but it just didn't connect in my head that you had a friend named Ron and now you have a boyfriend with the same name. And then I said it out loud, and embarrassed you, so I'm sorry. Although actually I'm not that sorry, because he didn't seem to mind at all, and he seems like a lovely young man. I would say that he'd better treat you properly, but then again you're probably capable of causing him far more damage than I ever could!_

_Your father and I have found a house. It's a two-bedroom, and it's in a little village not far from the Burrow – your dad has fallen in love with the area since staying here! Plus there's a lovely big garden for me to grow all my flowers in, so we put in an offer for it three days ago. Hopefully we'll all be able to spend Christmas there, which will help make up for missing out on the past year. We can have a proper family Christmas like we used to. I hope you do decide to come home this year instead of staying at the castle, but let me know what you choose. _

_Take care, sweetheart. _

_Lots of love, _

_Mum and Dad xxxxx_

**~ OoOoO ~**

_18th_ _November 1998_

_To Harry, _

_I hope everything's good with you and the job isn't too stressful yet! Although I'll laugh if it is, as you've only worked there for three weeks. I doubt it though – you'll make a great Auror. We didn't really get a chance to talk properly before I got on the train, apart from that one conversation in Ginny's room, and I wanted to thank you for everything _you've _done for _me _over the years, right from that troll. I'm so grateful you and Ron decided to make friends with the swotty one – though I suppose it's worked to your advantage a few times since then, hasn't it! – and I really do have no idea what I'd do without the two of you (I wish all this didn't sound so bloody _cheesy!).

_Hogwarts looks completely different_. _Maybe it's because the last time I saw it, people were fighting and dying here, but I couldn't believe how different it looked when I got back here properly. It's not like it's changed though, not physically, but something inside it seems to have. Maybe it's because half the people I used to see here just aren't here anymore. Oh, and that reminds me – Hagrid sends his love, and also said why hasn't he got a letter yet when I have?_

_It feels so weird not having you and Ron here, although I suppose that's a good thing in some ways. I get stared at and asked questions enough as it is – if you were here, it would never stop, and I know you hate that. Then again, if just one more person asks me for your autograph (or mine, for that matter), or if it's true we stole a dragon, I will hex them into oblivion. I don't care how tiny they are – they always seem to ask me at the worst possible times! I don't know how you've coped with it, to be honest, Harry - you're a much better person than I am. Either that or you just keep your homicidal thoughts to yourself!_

_I'm assuming you'll be having Christmas at the Burrow with Ron's family this year. Mrs Weasley has invited me too, but I'm torn now, because my parents want me to have Christmas dinner with them, and I don't know what to do. My mum really wants me to be there, because we missed out on last Christmas and all of this year together, and now that they've found a house they want a proper family Christmas, but on the other hand, it's Ron I'd be saying no to, and I know he'll be hurt if I say I can't see him at all on Christmas Day. I barely see him enough as it is. What do you think?_

_By the way, I really hope you managed to talk to Ginny before we left. I did try asking her but she's not telling. You two really need your heads banging together if you don't sort something out soon. I know things ended badly for you and I know things got really complicated, but the reason you split up in the first place doesn't exist anymore, so I really can't see any reason why you'd be fighting this. I'm not stupid, Harry, I know you care for her still – I noticed in Australia that whenever we mentioned her you looked sad and changed the subject quickly. Please talk to her before it's too late – you really don't want this to end up like Ron and I were in sixth year, jealous and doing nothing but arguing all the time because we were too stubborn to actually speak honestly. I feel like I'm preaching to you now – please don't take it that way. _

_Anyway, it's Christmas soon, and I'll be at the Burrow at least for some of the holidays, even if I miss Christmas Day, so I'll definitely see you then. _

_Love, _

_Hermione_

_X_

**~ OoOoO ~**

_21st_ _November 1998_

_To my Hermione, _

_If you think composing the letter on the train is overly keen, clearly you didn't realise I was mouthing the words to mine in the car _on the way _to the station (meaning I was sitting next to you holding your hand at the time). But I get extra points for managing not to send you anything until you'd written to me first, as I know you wanted to get the first letter in. And you say I have no self-control!_

_I know what you mean about wanting to talk and not being able to. There's lots of things I'd like to do and I can't. I aced one of our training courses last week and nearly kissed Harry with happiness before I realised he wasn't you (I don't know whether it was the panicked expression on his face that made me realise or the fact that you neither wear glasses nor are you a tall, skinny male). But I've decided it's okay, because I'm going to save up every single word I want to say to you, and every kiss and hug I want to give you, and you'll get them all at Christmas - which actually works to my advantage, thinking about it, because at the rate I'm going I'll end up basically glued to you. And then you won't be able to go away again anyway. _

_The job's going great, but it's a lot slower than I thought it'd be so far. We still have to do the training – turns out spending a year hunting down and killing the most evil wizard in the world isn't enough to exempt you from having to learn all the Concealment Charms and how to expose them. And you'll never guess who else Kingsley wrote to, apart from us three. Neville! He's completely different though, Hermione, you wouldn't recognise him. He lost a lot of weight last year at school but he's put it all back on in muscle now, and he's got quite confident too – he's actually better than me and Harry at some of the training. _

_Don't worry about the bird attack thing – it was my entire fault anyway. And scars are sexy, right? Just ask Harry. Anyway, you did _realise _I went out with her specifically to make you jealous, didn't you? Just in case you didn't and I just enlightened you, there's absolutely no need to punish me – it backfired anyway when I got to know her a bit better. You've more than made up for attacking me since then anyway, so don't apologise for it again. And I don't think I'll ever be able to apologise enough for running out on you and Harry, so since we've both apologised can we please pretend it never happened? It's not something I'm particularly proud of. _

_Tell Gin no, I don't have her quill, I think George does, so I suggest she write to him. Tell her "ha ha" too. And I (very grudgingly) agree with what you said about them, but I'm not going to bug Harry about it, for two specific reasons. One, and please don't take this the wrong way because it's said in the most loving way possible, I'm sure you've already done the honours for me. And two, it feels a bit weird asking someone to go out with my little sister. I wouldn't worry too much anyway, Hermione – I think he's gonna do it himself anyway, he keeps finding ways to bring her into the conversation even when she's nothing to do with what we're talking about. It's getting a bit annoying, actually. And I resent being called a grumpy bugger, by the way! Carry on that way and maybe I'll decide I won't keep you after all. _

_Anyway, Mum's whinging at me to set the table – can you believe it? I'm of age, I'm _working_, and she still gives me chores! – so I'm going to have to leave this here, but I miss you and I'm thinking of you. _

_All my love, always_

_Ron_

_Xxxxx_

**~ OoOoO ~**

_26th_ _November 1998_

_Hermione, _

_Right, confession time. _

_1) No, I haven't sorted things out with Ginny yet. It's awkward. I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to say to her – so far the best I've come up with is "Hey, remember how I dumped you? Well I've changed my mind, let's get cracking!" which I'm sure you'll agree is _not _every girl's fantasy chat-up line! So unless you can think of some magic sentence I probably won't say anything to her. Either that or I'll have a go at saying it all but I'll bodge it and nothing will come out right. And, _

_2) The troll was sort of mine and Ron's fault. cough. We knew you were locked in the bathroom with it because we kind of…sort of…locked the door. BUT, before you curse us into a thousand tiny bits, we didn't know you were in there with it, or we'd at least have laid a bet to make things interesting. I'm joking (please don't hurt me for it) – but yeah, please don't think it was some heroic act on our behalf, because it's our fault you needed to be rescued in the first place. Actually, that's 100 true, because it was our fault you were in the bathroom in the first place. So I'm sorry, but at the same time I'm not sorry because if that all hadn't happened, we wouldn't be friends. So now you can't hurt me. _

_Anyway, the job is going great. I think Ron's a bit disappointed we're not jumping straight into catching Dark wizards, but we're still finishing the training course first. We should be well on our way by Christmas, though. Kingsley wants to start as soon as possible, obviously – the longer we leave it, the more time they have to go into hiding and start it all up again. Neville is so much better than you'd think – he was always a bit nervous at school, wasn't he, but he's really matured over the last year or so. I still think he'd prefer to be doing Herbology though. _

_Don't worry about Christmas Day – I've spoken to Mrs Weasley about it, and we've decided to spend Christmas at Grimmauld Place. It's bigger, it's empty and it's completely safe now – plus it means Mrs Weasley can invite everyone, the way she wants. She's insisting on the "importance of family", so she's decided she wants Bill and Fleur coming, plus Charlie and Percy – did you hear Fleur's pregnant? The baby's due around May, so obviously Mrs Weasley is buzzing. Anyway, you don't need to worry about choosing where to spend Christmas Day, because your parents are invited too. _

_Tell Hagrid I hope he got my last letter, and now _I _want to know where _my _letter is! _

_Take care, Hermione. Come home soon, I miss you. _

_Love, _

_Harry_

_X _

**~ OoOoO ~**

_5th_ _December 1998_

_To Mum & Dad, _

_I hope everything's okay at home – thanks for the box of sweets, by the way. School is going great – it's different because Harry and Ron aren't here, but I've got other friends, and the lessons are just like I remembered._

_Don't worry Mum, I'll forgive you for embarrassing me, but it will cost you! I can't believe you didn't make the connection though – how many times did I go on about Ron to you?? It took me years to make the transition from friend to girlfriend, and you still didn't click that it was the same person! And it's all the worse when you think that we haven't actually been together that long – I don't think I told you how it happened, did I? I have to keep this quick so I'll give you the abridged version. I kissed him – right in the middle of a huge battle, that's how appropriate I am – and then absolutely nothing happened for a week after that. I thought I'd imagined it at one point. And then we were alone in his garden one evening and all of a sudden this enormous argument about absolutely nothing erupted from nowhere and we were screaming at each other, things we'd never ever said before, and then all of a sudden he kissed me. I think it was to shut me up, but if it was, it worked. You're right though, he is lovely, even if he is a bit of an idiot._

_Anyway, the reason I'm writing is to tell you that Harry has invited us all to Christmas dinner at his house (his godfather left him a house in his will) so we'd be spending the day with Harry and Ron's family too. You don't have to say yes but I thought it'd be a nice get-together, and it takes away from the stress of moving into the new house, too. _

_Let me know what you think, _

_Lots of love, _

_Hermione_

_xxxxxx_

**~ OoOoO ~**

_13th_ _December 1998_

_Ginny, _

_This is one of the hardest letters I think I've ever had to write, and I have no idea how to say anything that I need to. _

_I know you didn't believe me when I said I wanted you to come to Australia with us. I did. If I'm honest, I wanted that almost as much as I wanted Hermione to find her parents. It killed me being out there with her and Ron, watching them just being together and knowing I couldn't even touch you. And that you probably hated me for it. _

_Hermione's been nagging me to do this for weeks now. So has Ron, if I'm honest, not that he'll admit it. I wanted to but I could never work up the nerve. But I suppose if I don't do this now, I'll never do it. If I don't say any of this to you, it'll break me. _

_I'm so sorry for leaving you, but I did it because I thought it was best, not because I wanted to. I want you to know that. I've regretted it every single day since then. I know this is probably too little too late and you've moved on, though I really hope that's not true, but I felt like I needed to tell you all this. I still care about you. I always have. You were all I thought about the whole year we were away. _

_If I'm not too late, if there's still a chance, write back and let me know as soon as possible. If not, if you just want to be friends now, I understand totally. Don't reply to this letter if you don't want anything more than friendship, and I swear I'll never bring it up again. I'll be the best friend you ever had if that's what you want. _

_All my love, _

_Harry_

_Xxxxxx_

_**~ OoOoO ~**_

Ginny and Hermione had been home from school for a week and a half now. Christmas Day had come and gone; crackers had been pulled and snapped; Robert had carved an enormous turkey and set it onto every single plate; the rooms of Grimmauld Place were still lit with strings of bright lights and baubles; and still Ginny had barely spoken to Harry. She had been polite to him, but she was always careful to avoid prolonged conversation with him, and she made sure she was never left alone in a room with him, and every attempt he made to change this resulted in him sadly watching her swinging her long hair, like gold-spun fire, as she exited the room.

Ron, on the other hand, had done no such thing. True to his word, from the very instant Hermione walked through the door he wrapped himself so firmly around her she appeared to be wearing a second-skin, so that his freckles seemed to melt onto her own taut skin, so that Harry did not want to look at either of them anymore, because it made him remember what he has given up. And true to _his_ word, Harry did nothing more than remember; he did not mention his letter to Ginny, even though she hadn't given him any reply, or even any inclination that she received it.

It was New Year's Eve now; Robert and Catherine had returned to their new home, eager to unpack their belongings and settle into their old life once more. The Weasley's had elected to remain at Grimmauld Place, all except for Bill and Fleur, rubbing her swollen belly like a promise, who left for Shell Cottage on Boxing Day. Harry checked his watch; 11.27. Everyone was spread around the living room, talking in groups and pairs. Ginny lay on the floor spread out flat on her stomach, her long hair falling down over her face in profile, and Harry stood, mumbling something over his shoulder about going upstairs to change his shirt.

He ascended the stairs slowly, hearing the tinkling of Mrs Weasley's laughter downstairs, and turned on the landing to the entrance of his bedroom. He rummaged through his trunk for a clean shirt that he didn't really need and yanked the old one over his head.

"Nice," came a voice behind him. "What does the other side look like?"

Harry turned to see Ginny leaning casually against the frame of his bedroom door, her arms folded slightly, a half-smile misting her lips. She walked over to his bed, picked up the clean shirt he threw there and held it out to him, but as he lifted a hand to take it she grabbed that instead and pulled him close, so close he could taste her breath, like smoke and sugar, on his tongue, so close he could feel the silk of her hair beneath his fingertips and the curve of her back under his hand.

"I got your letter," she murmured between kisses, seeming to read his mind. "I didn't write back because I didn't have the right words."

"Then why have you been avoiding me?" asked Harry, leaning in once more and not particularly caring what her answer was in that moment.

"Because if I didn't, I've have done this in front of everyone," she said quickly, and granted his wish, making him forget how many times he kicked himself over the past three weeks, making him forget everything except for the shape of her mouth and the effervescent colour of ecstasy when it burns bright right on the backs of your eyelids, so bright you can taste it in your throat.

When finally they came back downstairs, hand in hand, the countdown to midnight had already begun. They joined the little group in the living room, shouting as the numbers ticked away, and as the clock struck twelve they cheered louder than anyone else.

"Let's hope next year starts better than this one did," said Harry, and Ron grinned in reply.

"Well, it can't be worse, can it?"


	7. Mauled By A Manticore

_**~ Chapter Seven – Mauled by a Manticore~ **_

_Gryffindor girls dormitory, Hogwarts_

_July 1999_

There was no one around her. She was entirely alone, and for some reason this frightened her. She couldn't see anything besides the sky; there was too much sky. It was the strangest colour – a faded blue that was almost oyster and flecked with gold all over. She reached up to touch a hand to it but it seemed to evaporate, like smoke, slipping through her fingers and hurtling away from her, so that darkness wrapped around her abandoned figure, silhouetting her, and though she tried to run to escape it, to chase the retreating light, the sky was far beyond reach now.

And then it was gone, and all there was was darkness, and nothing, and only her, left all alone and with no idea how she was going to find her way back home again.

"Wake up, get up, quick!"

Ginny's voice sounded panicked. It snapped into Hermione's consciousness, pulling her sharply and easily from her dream. Hermione squinted in the sudden light cast from her awakening and then sat bolt-upright, afraid. "Why? What's happened?"

Ginny ran across the dormitory at a pace that shouldn't have been normal for a human being and pulled the duvet back from Hermione, who was still frowning sleepily. "Fleur's having the baby, we've got to go, c'mon. I've put some clothes on the chair for you – we have to get going, Bill's asking for us."

Hermione sprang into action; kicking off the duvet she clambered out of bed, rushing around their dormitory as quietly as she could and dressing haphazardly. Ginny was already fully dressed but she was taking no such care to be quiet. Hermione could already see Lavender and Parvati stirring in their beds and she pointed this out to Ginny with a cautious glare. Ginny merely stared at her in response, incredulity twisting her pretty features.

"Are you mad?" she whispered, and her face split into a grin so wide it should have been illegal. "_Fleur's having the baby_ – I'm about to be an auntie, I couldn't care less if I wake up the whole castle!"

"Wait – Ginny, we can't just leave, what about -"

"Professor McGonagall already knows, Mum told her, and our exams aren't for three days," Ginny said quickly, without looking up from stuffing robes into a little rucksack. Hermione couldn't argue with this, though she tried; Ginny was right, the baby was more important than one day of missed revision.

Ten minutes later, Hermione had managed to calm Ginny a little, but she was still fizzing with excitement, and so Hermione managed to elicit only broken fragments of explanation from her; apparently Ron sent his Patronus to her to say that Fleur had gone into labour and to come to St Mungo's as soon as possible. The two of them rushed downstairs to the Common Room, fully dressed, and made their way to the fireplace. The plan, Ginny hissed happily to Hermione, was to use the Floo Network to get them as far as the Burrow, where Hermione would then transport Ginny via Side-Along Apparition to St Mungo's to meet everyone else.

Ginny gripped Hermione's hand and squeezed tightly, her eyes shining happily in the firelight.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

**~ OoOoO ~**

"I didn't know babies being born was so….disgusting," Ron said flatly. He was staring at the faded blue linoleum of the hospital floor, the long fingers of one hand wrapped around a polystyrene cup of coffee. His dark red hair was sleep-sculpted and stuck up at the back.

"Ah, the joys of sex education," said Hermione half-mockingly, rubbing her tired eyes with the flat of her palm, and Ron turned his head to face her, his incredulous expression almost comical if she hadn't been so exhausted.

"What are you talking about?" he said. "I never _got_ sex education – all I got was Mum telling me about when two people love each other very much and are married - she always emphasised the _married_ part - they decide to have a baby. She never said anything about blood, or how slimy they are, or that it makes women sound like they're being mauled to death by a Manticore!"

Hermione suppressed a smile; Ron was still clearly shell-shocked by witnessing the birth of another baby as everyone apart from Bill and Mr and Mrs Weasley were ushered out of Fleur's room. An hour later, Fleur was still struggling to give birth, and Ron, bored, had turned to talking about his earlier trauma.

"Surely you realised where they come from though?" asked Harry, half-grinning and half-disbelievingly. Then again, it wouldn't have surprised him if Ron didn't; he could be surprisingly obtuse, even now, after almost a year's worth of Auror training.

"Well, yeah, but when I thought about it I never really pictured it actually..you know..._exiting_." Ron's voice dropped to a horrified whisper at the final word, causing Harry, Ginny and George to roar with laughter, to the disapproval of two passing Healers. Their laughter was cut short by the sound of stampeding feet; Bill had practically thrown himself down the stairs in an effort to reach them, and the joy in his voice snagged on his teeth so that as he smiled wolfishly they could see it plainly.

"We've got a little girl!" he cried, and then he gestured upstairs, cutting short the little group's shrieks of happiness. "Come and see her, come see my daughter – but try and be quiet, Fleur's exhausted."

Ron thought this was a little hypocritical of Bill, considering the fact that he was practically shouting about his daughter's birth, but he let this slide and did not comment but traipsed up the stairs after everyone else. At the threshold to the door he hung back, saying his shoelace needed tying, and as everyone else entered the little room and the door swung closed he stooped to his shoes.

"You're _such_ a bad liar."

Ron looked up in surprise. Hermione was standing there, arms folded, an eyebrow raised quizzically.

"No, I'm not," he started, indignant. "How do you know I'm lying?"

"Easy," said Hermione. "You're wearing slip-on shoes."

"Bugger." Ron straightened and leant against the smooth beige surface of the wall.

"Do you want to tell me why you're making excuses not to see your niece?" asked Hermione, resting against the wall alongside him.

"Not particularly," sighed Ron. Hermione felt for his hand and took it, squeezing gently.

"Will you?"

Ron looked at her carefully. He was silent for long moments, but for once Hermione did not pry or nag; she only looked at him, as if she were afraid that to speak would frighten away any answer he had to give. He took a deep breath. "I'm rubbish with babies."

He waited for her to laugh. When she didn't, he pressed on. "I don't know what to do with them, I can't stand it when they cry, and I know Bill'll want me to hold her but I'm terrified I'll drop her."

"Ron…" Hermione began, but Ron cut her off.

"Don't say it, Hermione. Don't say that I'll be fine, and it'll come to me, and don't say that I've done harder things than hold a baby, okay? Just – just don't."

"I wasn't going to," said Hermione coolly, and when Ron looked at her, confused, she continued. "I wasn't going to say anything at all, actually. Except that you're nowhere near as useless as you seem to think you are."

"I don't think I'm useless."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I _don't_."

"Don't lie to me, Ron."

There was a long moment in which Ron simply stared at Hermione. She could see the muscle working in his jaw and knew that every word he wanted to say was collecting at the base of his throat. She could see his pulse beating there, making the spattering of freckles dance along the column of his neck, and she focused on that, one of her favourite parts of him, so that he had time to answer her or to change the subject if he wanted to. To her enormous surprise, he didn't want to.

"If I'm not useless, how come it took me three years even to realise I liked you and then another two years on top of that to even get anything started with you? If I'm not useless, then how come out of all three of us, _I'm_ the one who abandoned you two when it got a bit difficult?"

Hermione smiled and stood on her toes to kiss the tip of his nose. "That doesn't make you useless," she said confidently. "It might have taken you a while, but you _did_ get things started with me. And you came back, even though it was difficult. That makes you a bit slow, maybe, but definitely reliable. You're not useless."

Ron didn't answer her but pulled her close to him, wrapping himself tightly around her so that he could breathe the scent of her hair in. "What would I do without you?" he murmured.

"You'd have to go back to kissing your Aunty Muriel," Hermione smiled and pulled back from him. "Now, are you going to see your niece or not?"

**~ OoOoO ~**

"Mum, it's been three hours now," said Ginny. "Seriously, stop crying."

"I can't help it," smiled Mrs Weasley, staring down at the little bundle in her arms. Her new grand-daughter kicked and squirmed, the hair that sprouted from the top of her pink little face like silver strands of silk, her eyes wide and deep blue. Reluctantly she passed the baby back to Fleur, who nestled herself more comfortably in her pillows, supporting her daughter's head carefully.

"Have you thought of a name yet?" Mr Weasley asked Bill, and he shook his head.

"No, and I won't," he said, and the happiness that lit his face seemed to diminish the scars that zigzagged across it. "I'll love any name Fleur gives her."

"Well, I 'ave thought of sometheeng," said Fleur, smiling softly. "Tomorrow eet ees one year since ze Great Battle. I would like to honaire ze courage of ze people 'oo died by naming my daughtair Victoire."

She looked around at the assembled group, wearing a haughty expression as if daring them to question her choice of name, but all of them were nodding gently in agreement.

Mrs Weasley was crying again. "It's perfect," she said, staring down at her first grandchild with a wondrous expression on her tired face. "Victoire Weasley."

"Weasley?" asked Ginny, looking up at Fleur and Bill. "Aren't you having a double-barrelled name?"

Bill shook his head. "Nope. Victoire Delacour-Weasley's a bit too much of a mouthful, don't you think? At least, Fleur seems to think so."

"I 'ave taken my 'usband's name and before zat I took my father's name. My daughtair will do ze same." Fleur said the words so matter-of-factly that no one bothered to argue, though this might have had something to do with the fact that, at that moment, Victoire decided to display her first yawn, which sent most of the room into raptures over how exquisite she was.

**~ OoOoO ~**

"God, I'm glad that's all over now," said Ginny, collapsing beside Hermione. The two of them were stretched out beside the Lake, soaking up the last of the sunshine before the sun set. "Just think – we never have to take an exam, ever again!"

"And we'll never come back here again, either. Or, if we do, we won't be able to just lie out here like this. What will you do once we've finished properly?" asked Hermione lazily. She couldn't remember the last time she felt so relaxed.

"I have no idea. Steal Victoire and go on the run with her?"

"Somehow I don't think Harry's ready to adopt a child with you," laughed Hermione, and Ginny nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, that plus the small problem of what Bill might do to me for stealing his first-born!"

"It's so weird thinking that this time last year everything was so different," murmured Hermione pensively. She turned onto her stomach and picked up a blade of grass, rolling it carefully between her thumb and forefinger.

"I know," replied Ginny solemnly. Then she brightened. "But that was then and this is now. Positive thinking, right?"

Hermione nodded, smiling. "Right."

"Anyway, talking of positive thinking, what're you and Ron doing for your one-year anniversary? It's soon, isn't it?"

Hermione smiled. "I have absolutely no idea. Knowing Ron it won't be anything at all."

"Well, you never know."

"True."

**~ OoOoO ~**

_One week later_

"Quick, they're coming – hide!"

Harry closed the door carefully behind him and hurried to crouch behind the sofa. At his fevered hiss, there was a flurry of movement as everyone else rushed to find a hiding spot before the door was opened; this was not so simple for Hagrid, who looked around helplessly before shrugging and folding his arms, grinning apologetically at Harry. The silence was taut in the room as all eyes stared intently upon the moulded chrome of the door handle, so that Harry could hear voices before he saw the handle twist.

"I still don't see why we had to come to Grimm – oh!"

"Surprise!"

Ginny's petulance died in her throat as she took in the scene before her, whilst Hermione simply rounded her mouth in a perfect O of surprise. The living room of Grimmauld Place had been utterly transformed; paper banners were strewn from wall to wall; brightly coloured balloons had been strung up from every available place in the room; dozens and dozens of candles had been bewitched to float above their heads, their gently pulsing flames changing colour every few seconds, so that the room was tinged green, violet, rose. On the far wall, opposite the door, an enormous banner had been put up, reading in flashing foot-high letters _Congratulations!_ The room was filled with people, so many of them that their anticipation, barely contained, seemed to fizz in the air around them all. There was Hagrid, beaming from ear to ear, his beard trimmed and his beetle-eyes crinkled. There were all the Weasleys, including Charlie and Percy, Fleur nestling baby Victoire close to her chest like a precious secret. Hermione's parents stood in the centre of the little crowd, looking awkward but proud and smiling at their daughter with the whole of their hearts; there was Andromeda Tonks holding Teddy high as he gurgled happily and clutched at the balloon above his head; there were Neville and Luna, the latter of which was staring dreamily at the ceiling, frowning slightly as if unsure if she'd sighted something strange.

"Oh my…" breathed Hermione, as Mrs Weasley pushed forward to press a kiss on both their cheeks.

"Well, you didn't think we wouldn't celebrate you two graduating, now did you?" she smiled, and stepped aside as Luna moved forward to say hello.

"How did you get here before us?" asked Ginny incredulously. "You were on the train with us!"

"Is that why you _insisted_ on taking us for ice cream in London before we could come home?" Hermione asked, turning to Ron who merely grinned. "So there was time to plan all this?"

"It's also why I pretended to lose my wallet and made you look for it," added Harry with a faux-apologetic look, and Ron stared at him.

"You told me you really did lose it! You made me pay!"

"Yeah, well, I got a free ice cream out of it, didn't I?" grinned Harry, and Ron punched him lightly on the arm.

"Don't get too cocky, I'm charging interest now."

The next few hours passed by in a blur as Hermione and Ginny moved around the room, greeting everyone and receiving their congratulations. Baby Teddy, in particular, seemed to take a liking to Ginny, and howled when Andromeda lifted her arms to take him from her, screwing his face up in an expression that could only have meant _how could you do this to me?_ and clutching the straps of Ginny's sun-dress with chubby starfish hands and all the determination of a drunk spying an unattended bottle.

"He definitely takes after his mummy, doesn't he?" smiled Andromeda, folding her arms in resignation – her grandson would not be moved. "I remember when Nymphadora was little – you couldn't get her to say or do anything she didn't want to, no matter what you did."

"That's all right," said Ginny, making faces at the chuckling baby who, realising his position was no longer threatened, loosened his grip a little and relaxed in her arms enough to pull faces back at her. "Maybe I'll steal Teddy _and_ Victoire and go on the run with both of them."

"Planning your own school then, Gin?" asked Harry, sidling up from nowhere, a drink in his hand and, soon, Ginny's hip curved into the other. "A little petting zoo of babies you've stolen."

Ginny shook her head in mock solemnity. "No," she smiled. "Just Teddy and Victoire. I'll run away to the mountains and raise them to be just like me."

"Well, at least you won't have to worry about protecting yourself, then," grinned Harry. "You're scary enough on your own, but if all three of you use the Bat-Bogey Hex…"

"Shut up, you," laughed Ginny. "Or I'll start Teddy's education early by demonstrating it on you."

Harry pulled a mock-frightened face but inside he was jubilant. It had been seven months since New Year's Eve, seven months in which he had wanted nothing more than to pick up from exactly where he and Ginny left off, which of course had not been easy, since she had been at Hogwarts the whole time. It was less difficult than he thought it would be, for the simple reason that Ron was in the same situation as him, but still, now that he had her home properly, he would not let her out of his sight. At least, he mused now, not if he could possibly help it.

She didn't know it, but he spent every spare second (spare only because he wasn't thinking over and over of how best to distract her and Hermione in order to allow their secret party to be prepared) mapping each and every detail he could find about her. As a result, if he was asked to describe the exact colour of her hair, he could now say that it didn't have one, because it was like gold-spun fire; he could tell you the pearly frequency of her laughter; he could place the constellation of freckles that powdered her face and tell you how many there were between the lower edge of her left eye and the corner of her smile.

He could tell you that when she smiled she smiled from the bottom of her heart, and he knew this because her happiness caught in her teeth, so that was plain to see; he knew this because it was the smile she handed to him when she lighted from the train and into his arms just hours before. He could say that she would always ask for chopped nuts on her ice cream and then pick each one out, so that she could pop them into her mouth one by one long after the ice cream had been eaten. He could describe the patch of skin on her jaw line that was a different colour to the rest of her face; the way the viola curve of her body seemed to fizz with a kind of restless energy when she was still, as if she were always anxious to be moving, to be living life; the way her eyes were a different colour depending on her mood, and that the best colour was the bright ash brown when she smiled her first smile of the morning, the kind that let him see straight through to the other side of her heart, the kind that tugged at his own.

Ginny knew none of this, but then that didn't matter very much, Harry reasoned, because there was plenty of time in which he could tell her everything. Why rush what would take a lifetime to say? So for now, he contented himself with wrapping his arm carefully around her and watching her mothering Teddy, jiggling him on her hip and charming a brightly coloured ball so that it hovered above his head and he batted delightedly at it.

Across the room, Ron was wiping his sweaty palms down the sides of his loose T-shirt and trying very hard to look like he wasn't. Robert seized the opportunity when Hermione left Ron to talk to Hagrid about her plans for the summer, and pulled him aside for "a quick word", and Ron, being Ron, could not think quickly enough of a polite way to say a very firm "No thank you, I would rather eat my own head than hear what you have to say, because it doesn't sound good," therefore was currently looking Hermione's father in the eyes and hoping very hard that he didn't look like he was staring.

"There's no need to look so scared," began Robert, smiling reassuringly, but Ron's terror doubled. _This is definitely not good_, he thought. _They always reassure you when you're in trouble, not when it's a 'how-are-you' chat._

"I just wanted a little chat, that's all," Robert continued, and Ron attempted a smile, but changed his mind half-way through when he realised it would look like a grimace, with the subsequent result that he appeared to have suffered a mild stroke.

"Oh…er…erm…what – what about…?" said Ron vaguely, and then he frowned slightly as if expecting an answer, trying to give his flimsy response some weight. Luckily, Robert accepted it.

"Look," he sighed, wearing a defeated expression. "I always said to myself that – and I'm sure when you have children of your own you'll be the exact same way as me – when my daughter started dating properly I would have the proper Father Warning Chat." Something about the way he said the words made Ron imagine that they were capitalised, and therefore very important. "You know, casually cleaning a shotgun or working out when she introduces the boyfriend, and then warning him not to make her cry or _I'll _make _him_ cry."

There was a brief silence, in which Robert collected his thoughts and his words and Ron tried not to look too alarmed at the mention of both "children of your own" and "cleaning a shotgun".

"So normally, I'd tell you to look after my daughter and treat her properly," said Robert finally, looking Ron straight in the eyes. "But by the looks of it, you've been doing that for years anyway."

Ron tried not to fall over with surprise. He didn't trust himself to say anything, so took a long draught from his goblet of pumpkin juice instead.

"Hermione doesn't need me anymore, I realise that. She proved that by sending her mother and me away for all that time. But she definitely needs you, and you seem to have risen to the challenge admirably. So thank you, for everything you've done for her." He extended a hand to Ron, who took it carefully, and squeezed strongly. "She's a wonderful girl," he said, and Ron nodded.

"She's amazing," he said. This time, when Robert smiled it wasn't so tightly laced; his eyes seemed warmer somehow now that the difficult part of the conversation was over, and the tired grooves around his mouth and eyes seemed shallower, his skin smoother and brighter with relief.

"Never forget that," Robert said. "Ever."

"I won't," promised Ron, aware as he spoke that he was making a binding promise, one that would last for the remainder of his life, and not caring one bit. He had no intention whatsoever of abandoning Hermione now that she was finally his, and the thought of ever having to was what kept him awake at night. He had barely had an opportunity to speak to her today, and as Robert made his way across to his wife, deep in conversation with Ron's mother about the merits of adding garlic cloves to certain dishes, Ron headed straight for Hermione, who, mercifully, was hovering by the drinks table, pouring more pumpkin juice into a glass.

"Hello, you," he said, standing behind her and whispering into the shell of her ear, his hands wrapped around her middle. She snuggled into him, feeling the way the contours of her body fit the spaces between his perfectly.

"Hello yourself. Where've you been, anyway?"

"Having a nice, friendly chat with your dad."

"Oh _God_, what's he said?"

"Oh nothing. Just something about shotguns -"

"_Shotguns?!_"

"Yeah, nothing major."

"You're calling talking about shotguns 'nothing major'?!" Ron couldn't see her face but he could draw from heart the incredulous expression that he knew was misting it now.

"Oh, details, details," he said airily, flapping a hand nonchalantly in the air. "Anyway, I want to talk to you."

"What about?"

"Absolutely nothing whatsoever, my nosey little squirrel, but that doesn't mean I don't want to talk to you."

"Alright, we'll go in the garden then."

She led him by the hand through the throng of people and out the back door into the garden where, immediately that they turn the corner out of sight, he spun her around and backed her against the wall of the house, stealing her breath as he did so.

"What did you want to say, then?" Hermione asked, knowing full well what the answer was going to be and tipping her head slightly to receive it.

"This," Ron breathed and he lowered his head to hers, capturing her mouth with his and stealing the breath from her once more, his body pressed close to hers so that she could feel his heartbeat racing alongside her own. She grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him so close she swore she could almost feel his skin melting into her own, so close she could hear the notes of his pulse in her ears and her stomach, as she felt his mouth moving hot across hers.

"I've been wanting to do that all day," Ron breathed when they finally broke apart. "Happy anniversary."

Hermione beamed. "Happy anniversary," she repeated.

"I didn't get you anything," Ron admitted, unashamedly. "I was going to, but then I remembered you've got me, so what more could you want?"

"Funny," said Hermione. "I didn't think we were making too big a deal out of it anyway. And I already have a party, so it all worked out great for me."

Ron kissed her once more, slowly, so that this time she could taste the passion and the longing on his breath instead of just being caught up in the tide of it. He pulled away, biting his lip.

"Actually, I lied," he said, and Hermione frowned, confused. "I didn't get you anything, but I do have something for you."

"What is it?"

There was the briefest of pauses as Ron's courage caught in his throat, before he forced the words up.

"I love you," he said and he didn't close his eyes, though he wanted to, because he was watching the way her eyes changed colour as he said the words he had been thinking for months and been too afraid to voice. For a moment he thought it was the silvery reflection of the moon shining pearly in her eyes, until he looked closer and realised that the new brightness he saw was glowing straight from her heart.

"I love you," she whispered back, offering the words up like a prayer, and his heart soared at her words because he knew they were true, because she didn't say "I love you _too_", an automatic obligatory response, because she said them so slowly that each word seemed to reverberate from the force of her feeling. And suddenly all the words he had agonised over for the past few months, every word he discarded for not being big enough for what he wanted to say to her, all of them seemed to dam in his chest as they fought to be said at once, as they rose and swelled like a balloon, and his breathing constricted as he realised what had passed between them tonight, so that the only thing that made sense was to pull her close to him and hold her tight, hoping as he did so that she would somehow understand everything he couldn't say.

And, somehow, she did.


	8. Emotion in Motion

_Quick Author's Note:_

_I realised the other day that I've made the two main relationships __unbelievably_ _innocent, and they clearly don't remain that way unless James, Lily, Albus, Hugo and Rose are all born by either immaculate conception or a couple of test tubes, which is why I included the conversation below between Hermione and Ginny. Just so no one can flame me for not warning them, I'll say it now – there is an allusion to a sex scene later on, but no actual __scene__ of it. _

_The chapter title comes from a quote I found by Mae West that says: "Sex is emotion in motion__", which I rather liked for this chapter, considering the main theme of it__**.**_

**~ Chapter Eight – Emotion in Motion ~**

"Oh God, I can't do this, what was I thinking?"

Hermione sat up in bed, propping her elbows on her knees so that she could grip her face with whitened fingers. Beside her, Ginny sat up in her own bed and looked softly across at her friend. Hermione looked terrified. Ginny had seen her frightened before, but not even when facing a team of Death Eaters could Ginny recall her face looking so pale and drawn, the fear dancing maliciously in her eyes.

"You'll be fine," she offered, the words a handful of stones falling from a great height, and by the time they reached Hermione, their strength had diminished. "It's not that scary."

"It is, Ginny," Hermione argued, turning her head slowly towards her friend. "I'm not going to know anyone apart from Ron and Harry, and they'll be in a completely different department to me when they're even in the office at all, and I know I'm not going to be able to do anything I'm asked and I'll look completely _useless_ and they'll realise it's all just a big mistake hiring me and - "

"Stop, stop, stop!" Ginny cried as Hermione's words began to snowball, her voice rising an octave with every fresh worry. "You're ultrasonic now. And you're being ridiculous!"

"No, I'm not," glared Hermione.

"Yeah, you are," countered Ginny, her face set into a determined frown. Hermione would not win this one, because, for the first time in living memory, she was completely wrong. "It's not going to be much different from SPEW – and you did all that on your own, didn't you? And think about it, it's your first day, they're not gonna ask you to do anything amazing are they? I bet you anything, tomorrow the hardest thing you'll have to do is make coffee."

Hermione didn't say anything for long moments, but she relaxed her fevered grip on her hair and that was how Ginny knew that the words had sunk in. Logic had always been the best method of calming a panicked Hermione – Ginny had known that for many years, and she marvelled, even now, that half the time her brother floundered. But then, she mused, he had always been a little useless in such matters.

"You're right," Hermione said slowly, half to herself. "You're right, I'm being silly…you're right." She was still staring into space, and her lips began to move soundlessly, rounding on words too low for Ginny to hear. Finally, unable to bear the taut silence anymore – she could hear Hermione continuing to worry in her mind; her fears were humming in the air between them – she said the first thing that popped into her mind.

"Did I tell you I'm working with George now?"

Hermione's head snapped to her friend. "No – when did this happen?"

"At the party," Ginny smiled, and settled herself more comfortably in the bed. "I told him he needs to stop moping around and open the shop again properly instead of just that stupid mail order thing, and that Fred would want him to, and then he got all huffy and said that if I was so clever and so good at running a shop then I should help him. I don't think he was expecting me to say yeah."

Hermione laughed, and Ginny was pleased to hear the note of genuine amusement in her voice now that the panic had ebbed somewhat.

"Well, I just thought, I've got no idea what to do with my life now I've finished school, and he'll need help opening the shop again anyway, and besides, I think he's a bit lonely now. It's been a year, but I don't think it's the kind of thing he'll ever get used to, you know?"

"And I suppose you can always suggest new tricks and spells for him, can't you?" said Hermione, eager to change the subject; Ginny put on a brave face but she could see the tears shining in the backs of her eyes at the mention of her brother, and she knew that a broken Ginny was not something she was equipped to deal with, though she doubted Harry would mind being woken to comfort her. "When do you start?"

"Next week," Ginny said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and painting on a smile. "Mum's insisting that she be allowed to clean the shop thoroughly first – I don't blame her, it's been a year now and it's probably disgusting in there – but George is making me help her. I don't know why – I told him she'd probably be much happier cleaning herself, but still. And he wants to work on some new stuff before we open officially, so it'll probably be around the end of the summer that we reopen, just in time for the next school year."

"At least you won't have to be away from Harry anymore," said Hermione. "At least this year you'll be living in the same house, right?"

"Yeah, that's true," said Ginny, brightening. "Not that living in the same house makes any difference."

Hermione looked at her friend quizzically. "You mean - ?"

Ginny nodded. "Oh come on, Hermione, you know what my mum's like! I'm surprised we're allowed to be in the same room, let alone anything else. I think she's terrified she'll end up with more grandchildren – not that that would bother her, since she's completely obsessed with Victoire."

Hermione frowned, curious and uninterested at the same time as to what the answer to her next question would be. "Have you…you know?" The sentence broke off in her mouth under the weight of her embarrassment and she could taste its acridity pushing against her teeth.

Ginny wriggled in the bed a little, squirming slightly. Hermione didn't complete the sentence, but she didn't need to. The thing was, though, that Ginny had never really had this kind of conversation with Hermione before. She hadn't really had it with anyone before, simply because the main source of company she generally sought out had always been male. She connected better with males, perhaps because of her upbringing. And this wasn't the kind of conversation that ever came up with either her brothers or her male friends.

She didn't realise it, but Hermione was currently feeling precisely the same way. After all, it took Ron several years even to notice she wasn't just another Harry with longer hair and more curves, and there was no way she would have ever discussed anything like this with another girl. Ginny was the closest female friend she had ever had, and suddenly she almost felt as though she had missed out on all this, the giddy conversation that always so irritated her when witnessing other girls do the same, and which she now understood the appeal of.

"You have!" cried Hermione, too loudly, and Ginny pulled a face at her that meant _Shut up, you idiot, or I'll have to murder you._

"Just once," she admitted, her face burning. Hermione simply gaped at her, put off somewhat by the entirely new thought of a de-clothed Harry whilst simultaneously feeling an inexplicable morbid desire to hear more.

"How?" she asked, all thoughts of her new job entirely erased by a million questions fighting for prime place in her mind. Naturally, the stupidest of these was what won. "How?"

Ginny simply raised an eyebrow. "If you don't know 'how' by now, I'm not going to enlighten you."

"Sorry," said Hermione hurriedly, shifting her whole body so that she faced Ginny. "I didn't mean how – I meant when?"

Ginny blushed a little and squirmed on the bed, muttering an answer so quietly Hermione strained her ears to hear. "Sorry?" she said. "I didn't catch that."

"About two weeks ago," said Ginny, privately thinking that, actually, it wasn't 'about' two weeks ago; it was thirteen days, four hours, thirty-seven minutes and probably about sixteen seconds ago. Not that she was keeping count, of course.

Hermione counted on her fingers and gasped. "The night of the party?"

Ginny nodded. "Yeah."

"Is that why you disappeared for ages?"

"What do you think?"

"Does Ron know?"

Ginny actually laughed at this point. "Oh, come on, Hermione, you're meant to be the intelligent one! Do you really think he'd still be alive if he knew? I'd have killed him for being so annoying about it!"

"That's true," conceded Hermione. "Are you going to tell him?"

"Well, as I have no desire to die slowly of awkwardness, I really doubt it," said Ginny. "I'm not telling _any_ of my brothers, because it's none of their business. Besides, how would the conversation go? 'Hi, how's it going, by the way I got some the other day, how about you?'?"

"The most awkward conversation in the world ever," agreed Hermione, suppressing a mild smile at the incredulous expression she knew would grace Ron's face if he knew.

"Plus it would be a shame, all things considered, if Harry fought through everything only to be killed by my brothers in defence of my virtue."

Hermione laughed. "Very true. But please let me be there when you do tell Ron, it'll be hilarious."

"You're lucky," said Ginny seriously. "Not having any brothers to worry about – you can just do what you want and not have to factor in the possibility that your boyfriend will be horribly murdered for it."

"I wouldn't say that," said Hermione. "And anyway, how d'you know they'll kill Harry, not you?"

"Easy," grinned Ginny. "I'm their sister, and if they kill me, Mum will kill them. It'd be a bloodbath. Anyway, it's my turn to be nosey now – you've been with Ron a lot longer than I've been with Harry, so I want details." She paused, thought about it and then screwed up her face in disgust. "Actually, forget it, he's my brother, I don't want to know!"

"Just as well," said Hermione. "There's nothing to tell anyway."

"It was bad enough when I accidentally walked in on him in the sho – what d'you mean 'there's nothing to tell'?"

Hermione shrugged "What I said. Nothing to tell."

Ginny gaped. "You're kidding me?"

"Nope."

"You mean I've just sat there feeling awkward and telling you stuff, and you've got nothing to give in return?"

"Yep."

"But you've been going out for over a year now!"

"Yep."

"Don't you want to?"

"Obviously."

"Then why haven't you?"

"We just haven't, that's all."

Ginny simply stared at Hermione, unsure what to say. Okay, so she had been kind of hoping in the back of her brain that somehow Ron would remain a vestal virgin for life so she'd never have to know anything, and, okay, so she had been all ready to shriek 'I don't want to know!' when Hermione started speaking, but then she planned on looking disgusted and hearing all the gory details. And now….now Hermione was telling her there was _nothing_ to tell? It didn't make any sense.

"You're lying," she said at last.

"I'm not."

"You are; you just don't want to tell me."

"I'm not lying."

"It's okay to be embarrassed; I was, a bit."

"I'm not embarrassed in the slightest."

"Alright, then, you're not lying. Are you waiting 'til you're married or something?"

"I hope not."

"Damn, I was going to bag Head Bridesmaid. Okay, is it 'cause it's too weird?"

"It's not weird at all."

"You're afraid?"

"Nope, not it."

"You tried but he had 'problems'?"

"_No_."

"Is he secretly gay?" asked Ginny at last, pulling at her hair in frustration. Throughout the conversation Hermione remained looking softly at her, the corners of her mouth turned up maddeningly.

"If he was, I'd be more worried about Harry if I were you," smiled Hermione. "They're very close, aren't they?"

Ginny fought to control the shriek of dissatisfaction that was simmering at the base of her throat. "Then what?!" she cried, a little louder than she had anticipated, and then she stuffed the corner of the duvet into her mouth, a silencer.

"Wow, if I'd known before how much this would annoy you I'd probably have waited anyway, just to watch you squirm," said Hermione, ignoring Ginny's glare.

"Just tell me," begged Ginny. "Please?"

"No."

"Aha!" cried Ginny. "So there is something to tell!"

Hermione simply smiled that maddening smile. "Maybe there is," she said. "And then again, maybe there isn't."

And with these words, she plumped her pillow, settled herself in the bed, and within minutes was drifting off to sleep, grinning in satisfaction.

**~ OoOoO ~**

_I __**hate**_ _being new_.

Hermione sat behind the enormous desk, her desk, staring at the enormous pile of paperwork set before her and crossing her legs. She desperately needed to use the toilet, but she had already asked where it was twice this morning and was afraid to ask again for fear of looking like some kind of weird toilet-loitering freak. This morning at the Burrow she pulled her hair off her face into a low bun, so that stray tendrils escaped, but she desperately wished now that she had worn it loose so that she could play with it, twisting it comfortingly around her fingers, and, more importantly, so that she could hide behind it.

She had already had a mild hysterical moment this morning, when she got in the lift at reception and then froze before the enormous offering of buttons, paralysed with indecision; she had no idea which floor she needed and all that flooded her mind, inexplicably, were the ingredients for a Cheering Charm, so that it had taken her several minutes to calm herself and choose a floor at random, which, mercifully, turned out to be right. To make matters worse, she had not seen either Harry or Ron all day so far; though they travelled in with her, for moral support, they disappeared the second she was settled behind her desk, called away to attend to some urgent matter, and she hasn't seen them since. The pile of papers seemed to grow and swell with every frightened glance she cast at it, and she rested her head in her hands, trying to think.

"Is everything okay?" came a kind voice, and Hermione snapped her head up to see the owner of the voice, a pale-skinned witch of about twenty-four. Hermione shook her head.

"First day jitters?" said the girl, and Hermione nodded. "I thought as much. Kestrel Jones," she said, offering her hand, which Hermione took gratefully.

"Hermione Granger."

"Ah, of course. I've heard all about you – some amazing stuff, really," said Kestrel. "Look, don't worry about all this paperwork. You're brand new, they're not going to expect anything spectacular, and it's not as bad as it looks. I'll help you file some of it – I've not got anything to do just yet anyway."

"Thank you," replied Hermione, weak with gratitude. Kestrel flapped a hand nonchalantly at her.

"No problem. First days are always scary at a new job – actually, the whole first _week_ is usually an exercise in terror, especially when you don't know anyone."

"I know a couple of people, but none of them are in the office."

"Really?" said Kestrel, seating herself besides Hermione and sifting effortlessly through the enormous pile of paper. "Who?"

"Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom."

"Oh yeah, of course you'd know Potter and Weasley, stupid me. But you know Neville Longbottom too?"

Hermione smiled, noting the pleasure that was suddenly evident in Kestrel's voice. "He was in my year at school."

"Was he always so hot?"

Hermione laughed at her reverent tones. "God, no. He was really shy and had a bit of puppy-fat until what would have been our last year at school. It's only since then that he's got more confident and toned up."

Kestrel thought about this for a few moments. "D'you know if he's seeing anyone?" she asked, and Hermione wanted to laugh again, because she could still see the nervous Neville who banished his Snape Boggart, the Neville who trod on Ginny's toes at the Yule Ball, and she couldn't link that Neville to this new, apparently 'hot', Neville.

"I don't think so," she said finally. "But I can find out, if you like?"

"Ooh," replied Kestrel. "_Yes, please_. Now, hand me that document on Illegal Cross-Species Switches and let's get cracking."

The next few hours passed by considerably more quickly than the initial two, as Kestrel "Call-Me-Kess" Jones cheerfully helped Hermione with every terrifying new aspect of her job, from inter-departmental memos to the location of the nearest toilets, so that by the end of the day Hermione truly believed in angels. To her intense relief she was not required to take work home, meaning that when she finally slumped into an armchair at the Burrow, she could relax for the first time that day. She had agreed with her parents that she would remain here, since it was already connected to the Floo Network and made life considerably easier, on the condition that she wrote to them regularly and visited them occasionally in their new home in Wiltshire.

"Dinner will be ready in about an hour," bustled Mrs Weasley as she tidied around Hermione.

"Where _is_ everyone?" asked Hermione; she and Mrs Weasley were the only two people around.

"Still at work," replied Mrs Weasley. "Ginny's gone with George to have a look at the shop in Diagon Alley and see how long it's going to take to clean it out properly – I should imagine it's absolutely filthy by now – and I'm not expecting Harry and Ron back for at least another hour. How was your first day at work?"

Hermione sighed. "Long," she replied, and Mrs Weasley smiled.

"Well, don't worry," she told her. "You'll settle in soon enough."

Three weeks later, Hermione grudgingly admitted that Mrs Weasley was right. With the help of Kess, she soon slipped into a soothingly academic world, spending her days poring over enormous dusty volumes searching for old magizoological laws and preparing reports reviewing the status of current laws concerning non-human magical creatures. In that time she continued her torture of Ginny, dancing the question of her relationship's maturity in front of her with a zeal she would have sworn she didn't possess, with the somewhat dubious bonus that Ginny had revealed more of her _own_ relationship in a misguided attempt to coax the desired information out of Hermione.

Tonight, the first night in three weeks when neither Harry nor Ron were forced to work late, Mrs Weasley prepared a large meal and insisted that everyone be there on time. Hermione wasn't particularly bothered, not even when the two of them were late and they had to wait for dinner to be served, simply because she was enjoying herself far too much.

For a start, there was all the fun of making surreptitious kissing-noises at Ginny, who sat opposite, when Harry walked in, even if it _did_ result in Hermione's shin being rather bruised as a result of an extremely well aimed kick underneath the table. Then, of course, there was the added bonus of watching Ginny's tortured face when Ron pulled out the chair beside Hermione and kissed her hello, so that a silent conversation pulsed between the two girls all meal, entirely unheard but puissant nonetheless. Hermione gained particular satisfaction from trailing her fingers lightly up his arm as Mrs Weasley cleared the table in preparation for dessert, delighting in Ginny's look of desperate curiosity. When Ron yawned and stretched languidly in his seat, Hermione suggestively said, loudly enough for Ginny to hear, "You look exhausted. Shall we have an _early_ night?" placing particular emphasis on the word 'early'.

Unfortunately for Hermione, this sentence, primarily intended to inflict pain on Ginny, coincided with a lull in the conversation around the table, meaning that not only Ginny, but also Harry, Mr and Mrs Weasley and George heard this too, not to mention Ron, who merely gaped at her.

_Oh shit_, thought Hermione, flushing crimson as everyone stared at her. Ginny's look of triumph was unbearable, and she spent the remainder of the excruciating meal with her head bowed, utterly silent. When the last of the dishes had been swept away, she seized the opportunity, saying loudly, "Ooh, today has exhausted me; I think I'll go have a lie-down, excuse me," before rushing from the room, cursing herself for her stupidity.

Reaching the little room she shared with Ginny she threw herself down on her bed and hugged the pillow to her, thinking of what an idiot she was. It's not that she particularly wanted to torture Ginny with what-ifs; it's just that she had never really been in a position to do so, and it was fun playing with the ambiguity. But tonight, she decided, she would admit the truth to Ginny; that they hadn't, that she hadn't ever, and the game would stop.

"What the hell," came a voice from the doorway, "was all _that_ about?"

Hermione didn't turn around to see who it was. She didn't need to; she knew immediately. She knew before he even spoke, just by the way the hairs along the length of her arms had risen, by the way her breathing quickened instinctively and her lips seemed to fizz in expectancy.

"What was what?" she asked, feigning innocence and picking at the hem of the cushion in her arms. She heard the click of the lock when he closed the door and felt the bed sag beneath his weight as he came to sit beside her.

"You know what," he said. "Lucky for you, everyone else seems to think you're just a bit stressed out and weird."

"That's it, that's what I am," attempted Hermione, and he moved around the bed so that he could see her face, so that she couldn't hide her reaction no matter what.

"I'm not stupid, Hermione, so please don't treat me as if I am," Ron said firmly, but not unkindly. "What were you on about downstairs?"

Hermione didn't look at him but fiddled nervously with the hem of the cushion once more. She didn't like this new role reversal; it had always been her who scolded Ron for some tactlessness, some moment of new idiocy, always her who pumped him for answers, who assumed the morally superior role even when it didn't fit her. She cleared her throat in an attempt to buy herself some time.

"It was nothing, just a stupid game with Ginny, that's all," she murmured, and she watched Ron digest the words, knowing he wouldn't agree with them.

"What game?" he asked, and even though she could tell he was confused and annoyed she couldn't help but feel her heart skip a beat as she looked into his eyes, the fading light of the summer sun painting them cerulean and so clear that she swore she could see through to his soul.

"What game?" he repeated, and she forced herself to focus on his words and not the fact that the collar of his shirt was open so that she could see glimpses of his chest and the long muscles of his neck, freshly tanned by his time in the sun over the past month, so that she felt a new stirring within her and fought to restrain herself even as it bubbled through her entire body.

"Hermione?" Ron said, touching a hand to her arm, and with that Hermione's resolve snapped and she leapt up, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and pulling him roughly towards her, suddenly desperate to kiss him, but as her lips brushed against his he pushed her gently from him and stared hard at her. "Don't try to distract me; it's not going to work this time. Tell me what game."

Hermione sighed, trembling with the desire to kiss him and fighting down the urge to slap him for being so difficult. She cast her eyes around the room, searching desperately for something, anything, to look at while she said these words, because she had never said anything like this to him, and she couldn't look at him now, she just couldn't. Winging a silent apology to Ginny for what she was about to say, she opened her mouth to speak, her eyes focussed on the faded poster above Ginny's bed.

"Ginny and I were talking a few weeks ago…about her and Harry….and it kind of got onto…well, _you_ _know_….and then she started asking if _we_ had…but I wouldn't tell her yes or no…and I've kind of been teasing her with it since," she said, each word sagging under the weight of her embarrassment so that it got harder to speak as she went on, so that she could feel Ron's gaze on the nape of her neck and, for once, she wished he would look away.

"Why were you talking about that with her?" he said eventually, and Hermione looked up.

"I don't know, it just sort of came up in conversation."

"Then what did you tell her?"

"I didn't tell her anything, I just said there was nothing _to_ tell."

"Well you clearly told her something or you wouldn't have been teasing her all this time," said Ron, and Hermione could hear the annoyance distorting his voice.

"But there _is _nothing to tell!"

"Was it some kind of story-swapping, you know, you tell me and I'll tell you?"

"No, of _course _not - "

"Then why talk about it at all?" cried Ron, standing abruptly now.

"Why are you getting so annoyed?" asked Hermione, disbelievingly.

"Because it's none of my sister's business what we do or when we do it!"

"I never said it was - "

"I couldn't care less how far she's gone with Harry, or how many times, or anything like that, because it's nothing to do with me or my relationship with you. It's completely up to her."

"Well, that's complete rubbish," said Hermione hotly, irritated now. "What about at school, when you were insisting Ginny should tell you everything about the boys she'd kissed, and going mad at her for kissing them in corridors?"

Ron simply looked at her, calmed, and his eyes were so soft she didn't think she could look at them anymore, because it broke her heart a little to see them.

"Do you not think I might have changed a bit since then?" he asked her, and she knew he wasn't fighting anymore; he was really asking her. "Don't you think I might have grown up in the last two or three years, and maybe realised a relationship is between the two people involved and no one else?"

"I never said that," said Hermione, melting now that she could see his sadness, wanting to take everything back and make it better. She lifted her arms and he stepped into them, so that she could nestle into his chest and he could stroke her hair. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know you've changed, and I know it's none of Ginny's business what we do, or - "

The rest of her sentence was unheard as Ron dipped his head and stole the breath from her mouth, so that she could taste his, hot and sweet. She closed her eyes, feeling her stomach tingle, her spine shivering as he deepened the kiss, pushing her gently back on the bed so that she lay amongst the pillows, Ron on top of her, his mouth curving over hers, sharing secrets. His kiss was forceful and strong and it swept her away, so that all she felt was his hands in her hair and she moaned slightly. He lifted the duvet and pulled it over the two of them, so that they were entirely enveloped in the soft folds of the blanket, and continued to kiss her, moving his hands so that they traced the length of her body, feeling the way it seemed to arch beneath his touch.

His fingers found the parting in her blouse and hesitated slightly before sliding beneath them, pulling apart the buttons and feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips. He kissed her harder, and he was fast and soft and slow and sweet, all at once; he could feel her pulse fluttering beneath his hand as surely as if it were in his own chest, and he knew that he held her heart literally now.

When his hand roamed lower, he paused slightly, hesitant once again. This was the furthest they had ever gone, the closest they had ever come. At this point they always stopped, but when he stared into her sloe eyes he could see only happiness, only consent, and he gently peeled away her trousers, and all the time he was raining kisses down over her, trailing them up her neck and along the straight edge of her jaw, pressing them into the corner of her mouth before settling his lips over hers. The beat of his heart stilled to a gradual slowness as he stared deep into her eyes, trying to gauge her reaction before he saw it, his teeth grazing her lower lip, and he carefully tugged at his own clothes, so that she could feel the taut muscles of his chest, so that she could trail her fingers along the tight seam of his arms.

"Are you sure?" he asked, breathlessly, and he left the question hanging, the second half of it clear, unnecessary. She thought for a moment or two, knowing that if she said no he will stop, and then she looked straight into his eyes, bright with desire.

"Are you?" she asked, and he smiled as he crushed his mouth against hers, a perfectly reasonable answer. He shifted his weight above her and stared into her eyes once more, searching.

"Love you," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin, and he kissed her, his words rolling into her mouth, smooth and round.

"Love you too," she whispered back.

"Promise me something?" he asked, stroking the flat of her stomach absent-mindedly with his left hand and propping himself up with the other.

"What?"

"Don't tell Ginny about this, either."


	9. Time to Grow Up

**~ Chapter Nine – Time to Grow Up ~**

_Thursday September 20th_ _2000_

Catherine knew the little house was messy, and she knew that there was a pile of dishes lying on the counter-top of the kitchen waiting to be cleaned, because they glared at her as she walked past them, but she simply could not be bothered to tidy them away. It's not because she was overly slovenly; far from it. It's simply that she had a very long and unspeakably horrible day today, and all she wanted to do was lie back on the sofa with a very large glass of wine in her hand and watch all the trashy daytime television she set to record while she was at work, not attempt to scrub away the baked-on remains of last night's chicken casserole.

She kicked her shoes off and settled herself on the plush leather of the sofa, which sighed audibly as she wriggled around. Soon she was absorbed as single mothers confronted their alcoholism and children's paternity was revealed, so that she could forget the way the snotty-nosed Kirby child chose to belch loudly just as she opened his mouth; the way her new assistant, Melanie, accompanied every instruction Catherine gave her with a roll of her eyes and a snap of her chewing gum, even though Catherine had specifically told her since she began the job that she simply couldn't chew gum in the little surgery; the way the tiny local bakery where she always bought her lunchtime baguette was all out of her favourite chicken tikka filling, so that her options were tuna or nothing, and as a result her stomach spent the remainder of the day gurgling resentfully at her.

She glanced at the clock and felt herself relax. Robert would not be home for another few hours; he worked at a different surgery to her, a private one further in town (for which Catherine was often exceedingly jealous, as he generally dealt with less unsavoury characters for a higher wage) which meant a longer drive home anyway, but today was Thursday, and on Thursday nights he always played golf at a driving range nearby the surgery with a few of his colleagues. She wouldn't watch the chat shows for long, she thought. Just a couple of them, and then she'd wash up and prepare dinner. She just needed to relax for a while first…

A sudden loud _crack_ made her scream, sitting bolt upright and slopping wine all over herself. She darted her head around the little room and quickly ascertained the source of the crack, as there was now a figure standing in the centre of the room between her and the television, dressed in clean, pressed robes and looking absolutely frantic.

"Hermione?" Catherine cried, a hand fluttering at her chest as if she could soothe her frenzied pulse simply by holding it. "Christ, I wish you'd stop doing that! You nearly gave me a heart attack."

Hermione attempted an apologetic half-smile, and pointed her wand at the spilt wine that was now staining Catherine's crisp white shirt a deep red, saying "S_courgify_", so that instantly the shirt shone, all wine siphoned away. Catherine tried not to look too surprised; after all, she had known that her daughter had magical abilities for ten years now, so it should have been something she was used to by then.

"Thank you," she said, and then she saw the expression on her daughter's face. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, fine," said Hermione, too quickly, and she began to pace the little room, wringing her hands. "Absolutely fine, couldn't be better, fan-bloody-marvellous."

"Did you enjoy your birthday?" asked Catherine cautiously, thinking that this might be the reason for Hermione's mood. "I'm so sorry we couldn't make it, sweetheart; your father had to work late, and it seemed silly to travel all that way for just an hour or two."

"Yep, fine, brilliant, absolutely perfect," gabbled Hermione, seeming not to have heard the question, and continually wringing her hands, her eyes darting around the room as though desperately seeking an escape. "Everything's wonderful, couldn't be better, great party oh God oh God…"

"Shush, shush," said Catherine gently. "Sit down, stop pacing, and tell me what's happened, because something clearly has. I've never seen you so rattled." To her enormous surprise, Hermione obeyed and Catherine looked at her daughter carefully. "Right. Now what's happened?"

Hermione didn't answer but shook her head solemnly, staring at a dark patch of carpet untouched by the fading sunlight. She continued to shake her head for long moments, looking anywhere but at her mother's face, and Catherine was sure she could see her lips moving, as if in silent prayer, the words too light to make a sound.

"Okay," said Catherine pleasantly, wondering what on earth had happened to spook Hermione so. "Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to put the kettle on, I'm going to make us both a cup of tea – no, put your wand away, you can't beat the old-fashioned way – and then you're going to tell me what's happened. Okay?"

Hermione didn't answer, so Catherine got up carefully and made her way quickly to the kitchen, all thoughts of the dirty dishes entirely forgotten. She made the tea in record time, not wanting to leave her daughter alone for longer than was strictly necessary and wondering what on earth she was going to be told had happened. She knew Hermione would attempt to brazen it out, but something momentous had clearly taken place, because Catherine could see the haunted expression in her bright amber eyes; the way she sat so tightly, her spine perfectly straight and her mouth pressed into a line; the way her fingers twitched ever so often, as if itching to escape; the way she constantly moved her feet, tapping out a nervous one-two rhythm on the plush stage of the carpet as though desperate to run away. She seemed frightened to name the problem, as if speaking about it would weight it, make it real, and for a moment Catherine felt lost, not wanting to push her daughter for information she clearly felt uncomfortable giving. Then, however, Catherine felt annoyed at herself; clearly Hermione _did_ want or need help or why else would she have come here, acting so erratically? And, after all, Catherine was her mother; if she couldn't help her daughter, then who could? It was her _job_, wasn't it?

"Right," said Catherine as she settled herself beside her daughter once more, a steaming mug of tea in each of their hands. "Now, what's happened? I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong. Is it your job?"

Hermione shook her head. "No."

"Okay. Is it Ron?"

Hermione lifted panicked eyes to her mother's and nodded ever so slightly.

"It's Ron? Oh, sweetheart, have you split up? Is that's what's wrong?"

"No, it's not that."

"You've had an argument?"

"We're always arguing. That's nothing."

"Well, then, what's he done? He's not…hurt you, has he?" Catherine asked, feeling the first stirrings of anger's heat climbing the ladder of her spine if this were true, but Hermione was shaking her head so violently that Catherine felt almost ashamed to have suggested it.

"_Never_," she said firmly. "And, anyway, it's much worse than that."

"What?" Catherine was bewildered. _Worse?_ What on earth could be _worse_? Her mind whirred through a million awful possibilities like a fruit machine, each one making the curve of her heart ache, because they had all already happened to her daughter and she could never fix it; she could paint over it, but the scar would always be there, beneath the surface. Catherine felt suddenly helpless. She had such a hands-on job and was so used to being able to fix the painful problems her patients came to her with that to have to sit and do nothing but watch was an exercise in pain for her. "Hermione, please, tell me what's happened, sweetheart. What's worse than him hurting you?"

Hermione lifted traumatised eyes to her mother, gripping her mug of tea so tightly it began to vibrate in her slim fingers. "He's…" she began, and then trailed off, biting her lip.

"Yes?" Catherine said slowly, coaxingly. Hermione took a deep, calming breath. And then she said all her words in a rush, so that what Catherine heard was:

"Askmemovinwim."

"_What_? You're gabbling, sweetheart- say that again."

"He's _asked_ _me_," Hermione said slowly, feeling the shape of each word as it exited her mouth and carefully studying her mother's reaction, "to _move in_ with him."

Catherine didn't say anything for very long moments, and automatically Hermione assumed the worse. She didn't know, however, that the reason Catherine was silent was because she realised how upset this had made Hermione, and so she was currently fighting the laughter that was bubbling in the pit of her stomach so that it didn't spill out and upset Hermione further. But, to be perfectly honest, Catherine was finding the whole thing so ridiculous that laughing was the only logical thing she could think of, the only sane response.

"Is that so…terrible?" she asked, her voice distorted by the laughter that vibrated through it, and she bit her lip carefully, seeing Hermione frown.

"Of course it is!" she cried, apoplectic with incredulity, as if astonished that her mother could be so dense. "He's asked me to _move in with him_! As in, live alone with him! Our _own_ place!"

"Yes," Catherine nodded. "I know what "moving in together" means, thank you. But honestly, Hermione, why is that so terrible of him? I'd have thought you'd be thrilled!"

"Thrilled?" repeated Hermione. "It's – it's – I don't know what to think, it's just so soon!"

"Look," said Catherine matter-of-factly. "Answer me these questions, very honestly. Do you love him?"

"Of _course_ I love him, Mum."

"Right. Is your relationship strong?"

"Strong?"

"Well, do you constantly have enormous arguments? Do you think about breaking up with him often? Do you trust him – that sort of thing?"

"Rarely, _never_, and yes, with my life," replied Hermione immediately, counting the responses off on her fingers.

"So why has this upset you so much, sweetheart? You already practically live with him as it is – the only difference would be that it would be _just_ the two of you, and you'd be paying the bills."

"That's exactly what Ron said," replied Hermione, her tongue suddenly working itself loose, so that she found the words tumbling out of her with no effort on her part whatsoever. "He asked me last night, after my birthday dinner, he took me into the garden and he asked me, and even though I wanted to say yes, all I kept thinking was that it was such a huge step, you know? And I told him I wasn't sure, and he just – he can't understand why I'm not jumping at the offer. He said what you said - about how we've practically lived together since we were eleven anyway, first at school and then when we were on the run, and in Australia and now at his house – and, and, and how he doesn't feel like he gets to see me enough anymore and, and, and that when he does everyone else is always there, and didn't – didn't I love him?" Catherine saw the tears start in Hermione's eyes before they actually arrived and had already passed her a tissue even before her daughter's voice fractured along the seams.

"And I said of _course_ I did, but I was just scared," continued Hermione, wiping her eyes. "I mean, what if we do it and then the stress breaks us up, or – or we start arguing more, properly arguing, and then break up anyway?"

"What did he say to that?" asked Catherine gently, propping her chin up with her hand, all laughter dissipated. Hermione sniffed loudly.

"He said how could I think that? And that he never ever wanted to break up with me, and that we've had enormous arguments in the past and we've always survived them. So I told him yes but that's when we were friends, and we're not anymore, but he just said that was all the more reason for us to survive it, because there's more at stake. He said we both have good jobs, and if it got too hard we could always just move back to his mum's house, and I said I was just scared, so he said – he said…"

Catherine leaned forward as Hermione dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. "What did he say, sweetheart?" she asked, and Hermione turned her whole body to face her mother now.

"He said that he knows we're going to go the whole way anyway, so it could never be too fast. I mean, I knew he loved me and I knew he was thinking long-term, but I never knew - I never knew he was thinking _that_ long-term! Mum, he's thinking _marriage_, and - and _kids, _and – and – and…"

"And?" prompted Catherine, mildly amused once again, now that she knew precisely what was wrong with her daughter.

"And I never _knew_ that!" Hermione exploded. "Mum, this is _Ron_ we're talking about – this is someone who's been known to stuff things under his bed when he's supposed to be tidying his room, even now, someone who actually got stroppy last week when we went for ice cream and they didn't have any pistachio nuts! It took him three years to realise he fancied me and another _two_ on top of that before he managed to do anything! And he always acts so childish, especially when we fight, but I had no idea he could be so – so mature! It scared me, Mum, you know what I'm like, I like to have everything ordered, everything black and white, I don't like things that don't make sense, things I wasn't expecting, you know? And now suddenly he wants to do this incredibly grown-up thing, and I'm scared."

Hermione broke off, her chest heaving; she just said everything very fast in one big breath, and she sat gasping now, looking just as frantic as she did when she arrived here. Actually, Catherine thought, she looked even _worse_, as if the effort of relating precisely what was bothering her caused it to increase so that it seemed an even more terrifying prospect. Catherine simply sat, looking thoughtfully at her daughter and running the edge of her thumb absent-mindedly around the white rim of her mug of tea, now cold.

Suddenly, from nowhere at all, she was reminded of Hermione's fifth birthday. She had been looking forward to it for weeks and weeks, counting down the days until her party on the little calendar in the kitchen, and constantly begging her mother to allow her to wear her brand new party dress just _one_ more time, oh please Mummy, just _once_ more. At every possible opportunity she told her mother proudly of how things would be different "when I'm five", how she'd be able to do lots of things that she couldn't do then, aged four, not that she would ever elaborate as to what these things were. And then on the day, she disappeared as soon as breakfast was finished. Catherine eventually found her twenty minutes later, when the heat of panic had fully shrouded her, hiding in the bottom of the garden, her little face pale and fearful.

"Mummy," she said. "I don't want to be five."

"Why not, sweetheart?"

"When I'm five I can't be four anymore, can I, Mummy? I want to be four." Hermione's eyes were wide and she tipped her face up to her mother's, staring expectantly at her with such trust that Catherine wished she could tell her no, she didn't have to be five, not if she didn't want to be. Instead she pulled her little daughter into a hug.

"But you have to be five or you can't go to school, sweetheart. You have be five so you can grow up."

Hermione had looked up thoughtfully and then said solemnly to her mother, "Then I just won't grow up." As if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Now, smiling at the memory, she repeated to her daughter the answer she had given her that day, fifteen years earlier. "No one ever wants to grow up, sweetheart, but we all have to. It's not so scary once you get used to it."

Hermione offered her a little half-smile and pushed her hair back off her face, sighing loudly. "Oh God, I've really messed up, haven't I?"

"Only if you let yourself mess it up," said Catherine coolly, sitting up straight now. "Listen to me. You're panicking because it's new, and it's scary, and you're overwhelmed and that's fine, okay, that's perfectly normal. But it's nowhere near as scary as you'd think. How long have you been together now?"

"Just over two years."

"That's practically a lifetime, sweetheart," said Catherine. "Especially when you remember that you were nearly joined at the hip for seven years before that. Altogether you've known him for nine years, so it's not like you're rushing things with a stranger, is it? Not that that's always necessarily a bad thing."

"What d'you mean?"

Catherine smiled, remembering. "I'd only known your father six months before he proposed to me," she said, her voice warm with nostalgia. "And I was so terrified at the time and so shocked that I said no straight away, just like that. He was devastated, but he never gave up asking me. He kept saying, "I'll wear you down one day, Cathy," and he did, before the year was out. It's been twenty-four years now, and I have never, ever looked back and wished I'd not married him. Not once."

Hermione simply stared. "You've never told me that," she breathed.

"Well, now I have," replied Catherine smoothly. "And you've known Ron for nine years; surely he can't have many more secrets for you to suddenly find? Surely you know him well enough by now?" She watched Hermione nod, knowing her words were hitting home.

"Oh God," said Hermione reverently, staring softly at her mother. "Oh God…I'm going to say yes." She bit her lip in an effort to quell her smile but it burst free, spilling over so that she couldn't help but grin, the new-found excitement tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I'd better find him – I came here straight from work, I've been obsessing all day, I've got hardly anything done. Oh God…I can't believe I'm going to agree to this…"

"Just let me know how it goes," purred Catherine, reaching forward to hug her daughter. "Now go away and don't come back until you've found a place!"

Hermione nodded, breathless, and jumps up to stand in the centre of the room. "Wish me luck," she said, and then she turned on the spot, her face screwed up in concentration, until there was a second loud _crack_ and she disappeared. Just at that moment, Catherine heard Robert's key turn in the lock and he walked into the living room to find her sitting serenely on the sofa, her daytime television programmes playing once more.

"Hi, honey. Greg's wife went into labour early so we cancelled the golf," he said, coat in hand. "Are you okay?" he added, catching the amused expression on his wife's pretty face.

"I'm fine," she said. "Dinner will be a little while. Oh, and Hermione says hello."

"Hermione was here?"

"Oh, she just popped by for a quick chat," said Catherine airily. Robert frowned.

"Is everything okay?"

Catherine simply smiled. "Everything's wonderful," she replied.

**~ OoOoO ~**

_11th_ _November 2000_

"Ron. It's a _flat_. What does it matter what shape the bathroom is as long as it _has_ one?"

"Of course it _matters_!"

"How?! It's. A. _Flat_. I couldn't care less that the kitchen faces north instead of south, or that the living room is painted bright orange, or that the hall smells a little bit like peaches."

"Well, I can't help it if I want our first home to be perfect, can I, Hermione?"

The grin Ron fixed Hermione with now was so wide and so inane that Harry bit his lip to quell the laughter bubbling through him at the sight of her expression, and instead contented himself with squeezing Ginny's hand conspiratorially. They had agreed to help Ron and Hermione search for a flat – Ron so that he could have a second and a third opinion, and Hermione so that she didn't end up killing Ron for being too picky – and although Ginny was initially reluctant, pleading to Harry that the day would be far better spent in bed (sleeping, of course, though she doubts Harry believes her), she had to admit now that it is actually rather fun.

This, so far, was the seventh flat they had seen today, and it was only four-thirty. This wasn't including the countless other properties now united under the heading Not What We're Looking For, Thank You. Uncharacteristically, Ron had become a sudden perfectionist, meticulously scanning each property they were shown in search of flaws and absolutely obsessed with his vision of The Perfect Flat, and already it had become clear that this simply did not exist, mostly because he had already rejected the first six.

Flat Number One, though large and well-decorated, was, apparently, in 'a dodgy area'. Privately, Harry thought that if a children's play park and a large hospital constituted 'dodgy' then he would have loved to know what Ron would think of truly bad places.

Flat Number Two was rejected soon after Ron bemoaned the paper-thin walls, claiming that he didn't want to live in a place where he had to remember to breathe quietly. Hermione began to counter this claim, citing the beautiful ensuite bathroom and relatively spacious living room as benefits that outweighed this, when, unfortunately for her argument, there was a groan of pleasure which was punctuated by a loud flushing noise and which could only have been coming from the next room. Which happened, more unfortunately still, to be in the next flat. The memory of this incident now made it even harder for Harry to prevent himself from smiling.

Flat Number Three Ron refused to enter, having spied several large and slightly menacing-looking pigeons ruffling their feathers aggressively above the kitchen window, pointing out the rather unattractive swirl of green-white droppings that adorned the outer walls of the building. Ginny tried to point out that this was in fact Art, but Ron insisted that she just wanted him to have to pay to live in a giant pigeon toilet.

Flat Number Four was looking extremely promising. There were several large rooms, all beautifully decorated, and even the direction of the bathroom was deemed by Ron to be acceptable. Harry had even begun congratulating Ron on managing to find his dream home at last, when Ginny happened to curiously poke a small hole in the wall, at which point the plaster crumbled beneath her prodding digit and covered the floor with a thick blanket of grey dust, exposing a rather large hole in the wall. But, as Hermione cheerfully pointed out, at least they knew now that next-door had a bright fuchsia kitchen, which showed that there was hope; there were worse-decorated flats than the ones they had been shown so far.

By Flat Number Five, Harry was beginning to lose interest somewhat. He knew even before they entered that Ron would dislike it, and not because of the smell on the landing. It wasn't because of the seemingly endless series of doors they were forced to pass through before they even got close to the front door, either. No – although Ron still was adamant that the 'vibe wasn't right there', Harry had a sneaking suspicion that the reason Ron rejected Flat Number Five had rather more to do with the fact that an absolutely enormous leather-clad biker had emerged from next door in a cloud of smoke and muttered a gruff greeting to the little group, causing the blood to drain from Ron's face and pool in his ears, and stealing his grasp of the English language to such an extent that he was only able to say one word through the entirety of their exchange, which was "Mmpfnfgf".

Flat Number Six required them to climb a never-ending staircase, so that the four of them were gasping by the time they reached the front door, practically ready to collapse in a heap. Even the estate agent who was showing them around, a spry young woman of around thirty and with impossibly bouncy blonde hair, flushed pink and was breathing slightly more heavily, and she didn't bat an eyelid when Ron politely informed her that he didn't quite fancy the idea of climbing Mount Staircase after a refreshing day relaxing in the sun, let alone after a long day at work.

Now, by Flat Number Seven, Harry and Ginny could see the estate agent's uniform grin is starting to slip slightly. She remained relentlessly chirpy, which while irritating was nevertheless worth watching Hermione's reaction to – Ginny had already whispered in Harry's ear that if Hermione's lips went so thin from frustration that they disappeared then he owed her ten Galleons. Harry knew without asking her that she was tired, because she kept unconsciously pulling on her left earlobe, a trait left over from her early adolescence, and he knew that she would happily settle for any of the properties they had seen so far, simply so that the Never Ending Search would finally be over.

Ron, however, appeared to be entirely oblivious to how much aggravation he was causing, and was happily inspecting the flat for any imperfections. Privately, Harry doubted that he would find any. From what he could see, this one looked pretty perfect. It wasn't too far from The Burrow, meaning that Hermione wouldn't have to learn to cook roast dinners exactly the way Mrs Weasley did; each room was spacious and airy, filled with natural light that flooded in easily from large windows, and all the walls were painted white, so that there were no awful colour schemes to put Ron off. Even the rent was not as steep as the Pigeon Place, meaning that they wouldn't have to live off pasta and soup and knit their own clothes for the rest of their lives if they picked this flat.

Not that this was persuading Ron particularly. He wasn't bothered that the hall smelt faintly of peaches (he swore he saw Ginny inhale as they walked in, though she vehemently denied this) – at least, not as bothered as he was pretending to be - and if he was honest he was only complaining about the direction the kitchen faced to irritate Hermione; he might love her now but it was still too much fun to wind her up not to do it, so he ensured he did this at least once a day. However, he could see the slim fingers of her right hand twitching oddly as if she were restraining them from getting out her wand, which would, at best, be an awful idea, since they had decided to search for their new home using a Muggle estate agent, and it would ruin the day slightly if she witnessed the happy couple curse each other into oblivion.

"This property is in a lovely location…" Ron could hear the estate agent speaking but he tuned her out a long time ago; she had a brittle, nasal quality to her voice which he thought privately was rather unfortunate, because her face was quite pretty. He wandered around the flat as she spoke, trying to picture it filled with furniture, trying to imagine himself living here. Not, of course, that they actually had any furniture just yet. But how expensive could that be? Ron had already vowed to himself that from the moment he and Hermione have picked a place he would buy nothing but the best. He hadn't told her, but he loved having his own income, his own money. After years of scraping by, it felt nice to be able to walk into a shop and buy something he needed or wanted without fretting over how the cost would be met. He hadn't told her any of this and he doubted he ever would; it's hard to understand how good sudden fortune feels when you've never had to grow accustomed to struggling, even with the best intentions in the world.

"If we picked this place, how long will it be before we can move in?" Hermione asked out of nowhere, taking Ron by surprise, and he suddenly felt guilty. He had been automatically rejecting flats at the slightest hiccough; he hadn't even considered if Hermione might have liked the places they were shown, and he had not particularly discussed any of them.

"Oh, it's ready to go right now," said the estate agent chirpily, her mega-watt smile impossibly bright, so that Ron watched the corner of Hermione's mouth twitch a little in irritation despite her friendliness to the woman. "I'd say around a fortnight from now, once everything's sorted out properly. I'll leave you for a moment to discuss it."

She walked from the living room, her impossibly high heels clacking on the wood floor, her hair swinging from side to side, and Hermione swore she sees Harry's eyes dart to her bottom, bouncy in a little skirt, as she sashayed out. Then again, she could also see Ginny looking too.

"Whatever that woman's on," said Ginny now, confirming Hermione's suspicions. "I want some of it. I want to be that bouncy when I walk too."

"Well, I know what to get you for Christmas now, then," smiled Harry. "A pogo stick. And some Prozac so you can be relentlessly happy too."

"You're the one who'll have to put up with me," replied Ginny innocently. "Go for it."

"What d'you think, then, Hermione?" Ron asked, looking at her now. She was looking carefully out of the window, a slight frown on her face, and she turned to him, still frowning.

"I think there are better views to have than lots of other buildings, but other than that, I like it," she said. "It's got a nice atmosphere here, don't you think? And there's that spare room too – that means I'll be able to have a study. What about you?"

Ron smiled. "I think we've found our flat."

**~ OoOoO ~**

"Molly…" Arthur's voice held a faint note of warning not usually contained there as he watched her feverishly scrubbing pots and pans by hand rather than by magic; a sure sign that she was agitated. "Molly, they're both adults now…"

"That's not what I'm objecting to, Arthur!" snapped Molly, and she didn't pause in her activities even as she fixed her husband with steely eyes. He pushed his glasses up his nose with his index finger and blinked at her. "I just don't see why they're rushing things."

"I wouldn't say that," said Arthur pleasantly. "They've been going out for over two years now; we were married by that point in our relationship."

"Well, that's just it," sniffed Molly. "Why don't they get married first, before moving in together? _We_ did."

"Yes, but that was all so quick, Molly. We didn't wait for anything."

"I can't see why _they_ don't wait. When you and I got married there was a war coming, it was what everyone was doing. And there isn't a war on anymore! They of all people know that!"

Arthur didn't say anything for long moments, but simply sat and watched his wife scrubbing away. He didn't understand how they could have been married for the best part of three decades (and he was absolutely sure it was the _best_ part) and yet she still had not noticed the way he liked to sit and watch her sometimes. She was constantly moving, his Molly, so that the air around her seemed to fizz and crackle with each ebb of her mood; she didn't know it, but he loved it best when she was sleeping and he could simply see what she looked like in repose, when the lines of worry were smoothed clear by an invisible hand; when she stopped forcing the smile to her face and it became real as she dreamed; when she stopped rushing around for once and he could remember what it was that made him fall for her in the first place. He liked it best because he fell in love with Molly the first time he saw her relaxing, stretched out in the sun with her eyes lightly closed, the serenity that surrounded her almost tangible, a sight so rare he hardly dared take the memory out lest it be snatched away; he liked it best because when he saw her like this it reminded him of the good times, before he was forced to watch as age and stress marred her face, before 'age and stress' were words that even existed in their vocabularies.

"Look, Molly," he said now, coming to stand by his wife and resting a hand gently on her arm. "You are _never_ going to like the idea that your children have grown up. You were exactly like this when Bill announced he was marrying Fleur, and now look – you're constantly at Shell Cottage. I dread to think what Ginny's going to have to fight through to get your approval. And this isn't some silly little relationship that won't last. This is _Hermione_, Molly."

Molly didn't say anything but she stopped scrubbing at the pans, and Arthur took this as a sign that she was at least listening to him, even if she wasn't agreeing with anything he was saying. He took her hands, now broiled pink from the steaming water, and looked softly into her eyes, feeling the familiar pull of her once more.

"They're not married," said Arthur. "But don't you think that's exactly where they're heading, anyway?"

Molly couldn't argue with the logic of this. "I know that," she said. "And I hope we're both right. But I don't have to like the fact that most of my children have moved away. There's only George and Ginny left here now, and even they won't be around for much longer, will they? They've got the shop, and Ginny's got Harry and eventually George will find someone too." She sniffed. "I always used to complain that the house was too noisy; I never got a moment's peace. I used to wish everyone away sometimes. And now they've all gone."

Arthur smiled and kissed his wife gently. "The children are. But we've still got grandchildren, haven't we? There's Victoire, and Teddy, even. And that's only from Bill. There're five other children - just think of all the grandkids still to come. And stop getting so sad about it."

He pulled her into a tight hug as he spoke, so that she could inhale the scent of him, the pinewood and earthy smell that she first fell for three decades ago, when every crease of her face was a product of laughter rather than stress, when her hair was vibrant and red and fell in rippling waves to the small of her back, when her figure was still svelte and trim and she hadn't given birth to seven of his children.

A loud slamming of what could only be the front door broke the fragile moment, and Molly pulled away from her husband to see her two youngest children, Harry and Hermione walk into the kitchen. Ron was smiling, so that Molly could smell the poorly-disguised excitement that emanated from him in waves, and she forced her own smile to her face, so that he couldn't see that she was upset.

"We've found somewhere, Mum," he said, positively beaming. "We move in on the twenty-eighth of this month."

"That's great," said Molly, after a moment's pause and meaningful glance from Arthur. "That's wonderful – did you look at many properties before you picked one?"

Both Harry and Ginny bit their lips as Hermione said dryly, "Oh, not _that_ many, really."


	10. Of Riddlers And Darklings

**~ Chapter Ten – Of Riddlers and Darklings ~**

"You're on top of things, I see," said Harry, coming into Ron's office and sitting casually on his desk. Ron looked up briefly from the paperwork that littered his desk and smiled.

"Yeah, can't you tell? Tremayne gave me that report on Brady and Stevenson three hours ago and I've still not even had time to look at it. Where's Hermione when you need her, eh?"

"Well, you could always go and find her," said Harry, stretching slightly; he slept uncomfortably last night. For some reason a spring had come loose in his mattress, and no amount of pressing it, magic or rather loud swearing could coax it back into lying flat rather than jutting painfully into the flesh of his hip. "But I don't think she'd appreciate you dumping a load of your work on her desk – we're not at school anymore."

"Yeah," agreed Ron, laughing a little. "And don't I know it!"

"You all ready to move in, then?"

"What do you think?" Ron replied coolly, and Harry laughed and shook his head.

"Knowing you, I'd say you've not even packed yet."

"Got it in one."

"Hermione's gonna kill you – you're meant to be moving in tonight!"

Ron raised an eyebrow at his friend. "Believe it or not, mate, I actually had worked that one out myself. Oh well, it'll be a fun argument."

"I'm surprised, actually," said Harry, and Ron frowned.

"Why's that?"

"Two things really. One - that you didn't pack the day you picked the flat out of sheer excitement. And two - that it took you this long to ask her to move in with you."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I was expecting you to do it within about six months." This wasn't a lie. Ron didn't know it, but Harry and Ginny had been making bets with one another as to when it would happen, and currently Harry owed Ginny twenty-seven Galleons and six Sickles. Her knowledge of her brother's emotional and social ineptitude looked set to make her a rather well-off girl.

"Well," said Ron. "I've done it now. Your turn next."

"Not for a while yet," said Harry pensively, and Ron looked confused. "I don't think me and Gin are quite there yet," he offered by way of explanation.

"Can't believe I'm about to say this, but why not?" asked Ron. It's not that he was particularly desperate to marry off his little sister, but at the same time Harry was his best friend, and he wanted him to be happy. And from what he had witnessed of the two of them (not that he _wanted_ to; she was still his little sister, and he had no desire to see anything other than a chaste kiss on the cheek or the occasional hand-holding) they certainly appeared to be strong and happy.

"I dunno," shrugged Harry. "I don't know if she'd want to, you know? I think she still wants to be young while she's got the chance – I mean, she's still at the joke shop with George, and she's enjoying it. I don't want to rush anything."

Ron's ears reddened slightly as he focused on the last part of Harry's comment. "Is that what you think I'm doing? Rushing things?"

Harry didn't even blink as he answered his friend. "How could I think you're rushing things when I've just said I was expecting you to do this eighteen months ago?"

A silver head poked around the corner of Ron's office, interrupting their conversation. "I need you two to get down to Maidstone pronto and take Longbottom and Silvas with you for backup," said Jeremy Filkins, their boss. We just got a tip-off that Burton and Finchley have been spotted there."

Gerald Burton and Orion Finchley had been Ron and Harry's main focus for several months now. Over the summer the two of them had helped to disband a small group of Dark wizards, fanatics really, who called themselves Darklings and who remained loyal to Voldemort, despite his death, and continued to attempt to carry out his plans. In the two and a half years since the Battle of Hogwarts the Auror team under Kingsley's rule had been largely successful in tracking down and imprisoning rogue Death Eaters who had previously eluded the authorities, but shortly after this the Darklings appeared to form, though it wasn't clear precisely how. There had been several Muggle deaths over the last few months, which the government had attributed to gas leaks, and so far most of the Darklings had been caught and sent to Azkaban, now no longer under Dementor rule. Burton and Finchley, however, had proven to be the most difficult to catch; though by no means the ringleaders they were nevertheless extremely dangerous, and the Auror Department feared that they would reform the Darklings. There were always wizards and witches out to seek power and notoriety whatever the cost, although currently Burton and Finchley were the only two known ones. This, however, did not mean a thing; Burton and Finchley were known only because they elected to be, whereas the other, more dangerous, Darklings remained hidden, at least for the time being.

Twenty minutes later, Ron and Harry, accompanied by Neville and Tristan Silvas, were on the streets of Maidstone, heading towards the little house they had been informed contains the two Darklings, their earlier conversation forgotten. Reaching the house, Harry pulled his wand out and glanced down at the Sneakoscope in his hand, fitted with a Silencing Charm so as not to give away their position, and studied it carefully, waiting for the lights to spin, a warning. Ron followed his lead, his own wand gripped tightly in his long fingers as they slip the Invisibility Cloak over their shoulders, trying to pull it down; they were far taller now that they were no longer thirteen, and every so often their feet slipped out from beneath the silvery folds of the Cloak. Neville and Tristan simply pressed themselves against the frames of the door, out of direct sight. When the door proved to be locked, Ron pointed his wand at it and whispered "_Alohomora" _but nothing happened.

"Locking charm," whispered Harry, and Ron nodded, pulling out a Swiss-army knife from his pocket and flipping to the knife attachment that could open any lock. He pressed himself carefully against the door, aware that they might have only minutes, and slid the knife down the crease between the door and the frame, waiting for the small click that meant he was successful. The little group slipped quietly inside, feeling the darkness settle over them uncomfortably, and edged towards the stairs, spreading out slightly.

A scuffling noise upstairs made Harry freeze, every hair on his body on end, his nerves stretched taut as he strained to pinpoint the source. Tristan, a stocky blond wizard of twenty-three, moved beside him, pointing at the ceiling with his wand carefully and whispering , "_Ostendo Presentia." _

Nothing happened for long moments, and the four of them stared carefully at the ceiling, waiting. Slowly, patches of colour seemed to seep through the ceiling, moving around, in the shapes of footprints, as though someone was walking on the ceiling wearing paint-spattered shoes.

"They're upstairs," breathed Tristan. "I'd say there's about three of them but they're all in the same room."

"Right," said Harry. "Me and Ron will head upstairs first – you two stay behind us a bit, just in case. They don't know we're here yet, so let's try and take them by surprise."

At collective nods from the assembled group, Harry gripped his wand tighter, and carefully the four of them moved towards the stairs.

"Hang on," said Ron, and he pointed his wand at the stairs. "_Silencio_," he muttered, and when he took a tentative first step he was relieved that it did not groan beneath his weight.

"Right," said Neville bracingly. "Let's go."

**~ OoOoO ~**

The air in the little house was stale and stung the backs of the young men's throats and eyes; it felt solid, almost, thick with the stench of cigarettes and malevolence, and Harry could see the sinewy muscles that stretched tautly along the length of Neville's forearms as he gripped his wand, moving beside him as they crept carefully up the stairs. The tension hung between them so tightly they hardly dared breathe, aware that even the slightest noise could tip the scales out of their favour, and in this kind of situation they needed every single advantage they could possibly get. At the top of the scuffed stairs, draped in darkness, was a small landing, with three doors that led off from it, and here the little group paused. Tristan's spell was able to detect the presence of other people – it could not, however, tell them exactly which room they were in.

"_Muffliato_," said Ron quietly. "Well, there's three doors and four of us. What d'you reckon, Harry?" He, Neville and Tristan all turned to face Harry, their eyes expectant and hard.

"We don't know how many of them there are," whispered Harry. "I reckon it'd be madness trying to go in one at a time, but we can't waste time standing here talking. I say we all try one door at a time. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Right," said Harry, clutching his wand and sounding braver than he felt. He had been what was known affectionately as a Body Bag (since, as the originator of such a disconcerting nickname argued, they were far more likely to be killed on the job than a Pen Pusher working in the Auror Department, and it was (unfortunately) true that this Department of the Ministry held the highest death toll) for the best part of a year now, but he always got a sick fluttering in his stomach when faced with a situation such as this. "On my word…one…two…THREE!"

He kicked the door open as he cried the last word, sending dust flying up into his eyes, and, coughing and spluttering, he stood back and wiped his eyes as Ron and Tristan ran into the room, wands aimed. But when the dust settled, the room was revealed to be empty, with nothing but the skeleton of a child's bed nestled against a wall covered with stained and tattered wallpaper. A mouse skittered across the bare wood flooring, making Neville squeal slightly.

"Nothing here," said Ron, stating the obvious. "C'mon, next room, quick."

In a heartbeat they were crouched outside the second door, Harry's foot lifted in preparation, but just as he swung it back, Tristan stopped him, clamping a meaty hand on his thin shoulder.

"Wait," he said, his keen blue eyes piercing Harry's. "I don't reckon they heard us kick the first door in, else they'd've done something, but there's still the chance they're on to us. I think we should De-Apparate the place, so's they can't get away once we're in."

When Harry and Ron nodded their assent he lifted his wand carefully and pointed it at the door, muttering under his breath. As soon as the words left his mouth the frame of the door seemed to glow deep violet, just for a second, before returning to normal, and once more Harry lifted his foot to kick the door in.

The door had barely swung to meet the wall with a thundering crash and back again before all four of them were in the room, their wands pointed straight ahead at a single sallow-skinned young man who crouched opposite, beneath a large French window. His smoke-grey eyes were unyielding and there was a kind of hard desperation about him. His long hair was a deep copper, and he just missed being handsome by the air of disdain and general lack of cleanliness that clung to him. He smiled for the briefest of moments, so that they could see the disarming whiteness of his teeth, and then in the space between heartbeats he pointed his wand at them, slashing wildly at the air and screaming, "_Fractalus!"_

There was a shriek that resonated around the room, a note of purest pain, and Neville had fallen to the floor, his wand sent clattering, his hands clamped around his right ankle, which stained his skin and the floor crimson with his blood, and the man had only seconds to laugh before the combined force of Ron and Tristan's cry of "_STUPEFY!"_ had him passed out cold on the floor. Harry knelt beside Neville, whose face was damp and pink with the exertion of his pain, and carefully tried to peel away his long fingers from his wound. He winced as the damage was revealed; when Tristan pointed his wand at it, siphoning the blood away, they had only seconds to see what was there before blood swathed it once more, but once seen it was unmistakeable. A clear half-inch of bone, bleached white, protruded from Neville's ankle, and the flesh around it was red and black and angry.

"Can you fix it, Tristan?" asked Ron anxiously, but Tristan was already shaking his head ruefully.

"No," he said carefully. "This is Dark Magic, and I'm not a Healer – I only know the basics and a bit more. He needs St Mungo's; I'll take him."

Before Harry and Ron could protest he lifted Neville carefully over his shoulder and carried him gently from the room so that he could Disapparate to safety.

"Jesus," said Ron, rubbing the back of his head in disbelief. "He looked unarmed, he really did."

"We should have Disarmed him straight away," saysaids Harry, angrily. "And now look."

Ron didn't answer him, because he didn't need to; Harry was right. Instead he busied himself with checking the room for signs of action prior to their arrival. The room looked perfectly normal, but a dark patch below the window caught his attention and he moved for a closer look. Seeing the thick glutinous red of blood he recoiled slightly, but when he peered closer still and saw three long yellowish fingernails he turned away, retching.

"There was more than just this one here," he said. "Looks like Splinching to me."

"Where?"

"Fingernails, look – under the window. And blood."

"But we made the room impossible to Disapparate out of," said Harry, confused.

"Maybe whoever left did it just as we cast the charm," suggested Ron. "Only one way to find out," he added, and nodded his head in the direction of the still body lying on the floor at their feet. He felt in his robes for a moment and then pulled out what he was looking for; a tiny cut-glass bottle whose stopper he pulled out, and, crouching close to the man, he tipped his head back and carefully poured a few drops of the clear liquid into his mouth.

"_Rennervate," _murmured Harry, pointing his wand at the man, just as Ron muttered a spell that sent thick black rope spewing from the end of his own wand and wrapping itself tightly around the man, who blinked and stirred now, sitting up.

"What's your name?" Harry asked curtly, and the man smiled wolfishly up at him as he gave his answer.

"Orion Finchley," he said truthfully, Veritaserum loosening his tongue somewhat. "And you are too late."

"Who are you working for?" said Ron, ignoring Finchley's comment.

"The Riddlers," answered Finchley, smiling wolfishly.

"The Riddlers?" repeated Harry and Ron simultaneously. Then, Ron added, "I thought you lot called yourself Darklings?"

"I am a Darkling, one sympathetic to the First's aims and desires, one who wishes to aid him in his quest. The Riddlers form the inner circle of his most trusted followers, the most devoted, those most dedicated to reviving the arts of the True Dark Lord -"

"Whose most trusted followers? Voldemort's?"

"Do not speak his name!" spat Finchley, kicking out at Harry, his movements hampered by the thick layers of his bindings.

"_Whose_ most trusted followers, Finchley?" asked Ron firmly, and Finchley glared up at him.

"His name is Logan O'Connell, and he is the Truest of all, the First Riddler, devoted to the resurrection of the True Dark Lord, Tom Riddle - "

"Logan O'Connell?" repeated Harry. "Is he the leader of all this? He's behind everything?"

"Yes," hissed Finchley, his sheet of thick copper hair shining in the half-light from the window. "We work to create his vision, to make it a reality once more, to bring back the glory days - "

"Glory days?" snarled Ron, unable to hold back any longer. "Is that what you call them? All those innocent people dying, tortured, all those families split up, all the shit we had to fight through and _still_ have to fight through, and you're calling them _glory days - _"

"Those who died were unworthy of life -" began Finchley defiantly, and in a heartbeat Ron's wand was pointed directly at his throat. The rest of his words were choked out by the tight grip of Ron's other hand closing around the vulnerable flesh.

"My brother died because of people like _you_," Ron said, biting the words off at the ends, because if he forced the sentence through his teeth this way it didn't feel so much like it was going to break him clean in two. He could taste his anger so strongly it was making him dizzy, and he bit down hard on his hatred of this man, so that only Harry's eyes on his back prevented him from killing him.

He squeezed Finchley's throat a little tighter for good measure, his blue eyes flashing dangerously and looking like precisely cut steel blades, cold and sharp and lethal. "My brother was the same age I am now, and he died because of people like _you_, so I'd think very carefully about what I say next if I were you," he said, speaking slowly and carefully, because it was the only control he had over his fury, so intense his hand shook, his eyes wide and his mouth set so tightly it felt like it would snap, and as he spoke his glare never left the pale face of the man sitting before him. "And if you're too thick to understand that, and you dare even _suggest_ he didn't deserve to be alive, I promise I will kill you here and now, and no one will ever believe it wasn't self defence. He'll back me up," he added nodding his head towards Harry.

Finchley swallowed audibly, painful against Ron's fist, and Harry changed the subject quickly. He had never seen Ron so angry in the entire ten years he had known him, not even during the worst of his fights with Hermione.

"Were you alone here?" he asked, and Finchley darted his eyes back towards Harry, grateful for the escape, though beads of sweat now blotted his forehead. "Ron, lower your wand. We need him alive."

It was easy to see how much effort it cost Ron to uncurl his fingers from around Finchley's throat, even without the way his hand trembled and his upper lip curled with disdain, but to Harry's enormous surprise he obeyed, slowly, his blade-like eyes burning into Finchley's own wide ones.

"If you say another word that I don't like," Ron told him simply, his honesty evident in his cold voice. "I will break your jaw for you. And then you won't be spreading any of your filth for a while, because I will make sure it can be healed with magic."

"Ron." Harry's voice was a warning now; Ron shrugged his words away and stepped carefully back from Finchley, who watched him warily. Harry repeated his question.

"No," he answered. "I was here with Gerald Burton. He heard you and Apparated just as you cast your spell, which prevented me from joining him. I assume he did it just as you finished saying the incantation, because he Splinched himself."

"What were you doing here?" Harry continuec, because Ron was still too angry to speak; he had stalked to the other side of the little room where he paced now, casting the occasional dark look in Finchley's direction.

"We hadn't been here long," replied Finchley coolly. "Perhaps four hours at most. We were discussing how best to carry out the First's next plan – to kidnap and hold to ransom a prominent Muggle, so that you will all finally realise that we are no idle threat."

"Why you two?" asked Harry. "Why not the Riddlers? They're his higher circle, right?"

"It was to be our test," said Finchley, throwing his head back and smiling wondrously as if glowing in the warmth of some unknown admiration. "Our initiation. Upon completion we were to be welcomed into the circle of the Riddlers."

"Enough," said Ron from the other side of the room. "Let's just hurry up and get him to Azkaban. They can deal with him."

**~ OoOoO ~**

Since Voldemort's downfall, over two years previously, control of Azkaban had been taken entirely from the Dementors. It was partly due to the fact that they held no loyalty to any human, offering their services to anyone who could supply them with enough fresh souls to satisfy their ghoulish appetite, and partly due to the fact that every time Kingsley Shacklebolt walked past them he could feel every single hair on his body shiver, and considering he made trips to the prison with some regularity, this had to change. Therefore, the prison itself was now staffed by wizards and witches, with every magical security measure known to the Ministry to guard it, and each prison guard was paired with another and accompanied by a Crup, for extra protection. Kingsley believed the staff were more at risk than the prisoners because after all, there was nowhere to go once a prisoner escaped but the freezing open sea, and he was extra careful to ensure none of his staff members were ever at threat of attack. Each inmate was kept entirely isolated, particularly since the vast majority were Darklings or former Death Eaters, at all times, wandless and with their only human interaction coming from the surly two guards who brought them their meals three times daily.

A large part of both Ron and Harry's job descriptions, unfortunately, required that they, too, make several regular visits to the prison. The decaying smell of despair now no longer clung to the place, but all the same the stench of desperation and the longing for freedom pervaded the air, clinging to their clothes long after they left the fortress. Today, they arrived supporting an unconscious and heavily-bound Finchley, whose head lolled from side to side as they passed through the seemingly-endless series of heavy metal doors and gates.

"Got another one for us?" said Leona Jenkins, the dark-skinned female prison guard who was generally the person who showed them to their capture's cells. "Off we go then – 8H is free."

Leona was pretty enough in an obvious kind of way, but despite her jollity she always made Ron's blood run a little cooler in his veins. There was something not quite right about her carefully pitched laughter. He attributed it to her proximity to such despicable humans, but privately he theorised that his natural dislike of her stemmed from the fact that, despite the absolute scum she dealt with every minute of every day, she remained so..._chirpy_. Relentlessly happy people were grating at the best of times – but an Azkaban prison guard who smiled so much Ron half expected her cheeks to crumble away from overuse was more than he could comfortably bear, so he kept his distance at all times.

Together, Leona, Harry, Ron, Finchley, and Leona's partner, Geoffrey Rawling, made their way through the narrow corridors, ignoring the few hands that thrusted feebly between the bars and the keening cries of men driven mad by solitude, Leona even more chirpy than usual as they

"You're getting good at this, aren't you?" she said jovially as they went. A large woman, her full cheekbones and dark brows meant that she had a formidable appearance that did not match her bright personality or high-pitched, girlish laugh. "How many have you got now?"

"Twenty-seven, including this one," said Harry, and Leona laughed raucously.

"Good, good," she said, and when they reached cell 8H they lay Finchley down carefully, Geoffrey locking the cell behind them once they left, using a complicated system of two separate keys and a spell too quietly whispered for either Ron or Harry to make out.

"That ought to hold him," Leona said cheerfully. "How long's he here for?"

"Depends when his trial is, and what they decide," replied Harry. "But we've been after him for quite a while, so I'd say he'll be here for a fairly long stay. We've got to find his partner too – he got away."

"Best get cracking then," said Leona, and she laughed loudly once more at her own joke. The little group made its way carefully back towards the main entrance, Leona and Geoffrey walking ahead.

The sight of a tall figure with long white-blond hair made Harry pause in his tracks, causing Ron to walk straight into him. At his cry of shock, the figure turned around, revealing cool grey eyes and a haughty expression, which quickly turned to surprise as he took in the sight of Harry.

"Malfoy," whispered Ron, his eyes narrowing instantly. Harry shouldn't have been surprised, not really. He knew, of course, that Lucius Malfoy was halfway through his five-year sentence in Azkaban. The first of the Death Eaters to be captured, his sentence had been dramatically reduced for several reasons, the main ones being his complete and utter about-face. Lucius had not only given himself in voluntarily, but he also donated a large portion of his wealth towards helping victims of Voldemort's regime. If anything, Harry was surprised they hadn't crossed paths sooner. Beside him, he could feel the white-hot of Ron's anger, barely cooled since his confrontation with Finchley only hours before, and Harry gripped his friend's arm carefully, knowing that Ron was aching to take out his frustration on someone, and Malfoy would have provided the perfect scapegoat.

"Come on, Harry," he hissed now. "Look at him – we saved his life and he's visiting his scummy father in prison and he _still_ looks down on _us!_"

"Leave it, Ron," muttered Harry. "It's not worth it."

His eyes were locked carefully on Draco's, who held his gaze for as long as he dared before finally faltering and looking down, and when he swept his stare back up, Harry could read the silent grudging respect written there across his haughty features. Draco nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Harry returned the nod before he quite knew what he was doing.

"It's over," he said, half to Ron and half to himself, and he continued walking, his footsteps echoing off the smooth stone walls, as if nothing had happened at all.

**~ OoOoO ~**

**Some explanation of spells I created:**

_~ Ostendo Presentia_ is the result of me typing Reveal Presence into an online Latin translator, therefore please do not flame me for you having a better grasp of Latin than me – I studied it for five years but I gave it up three years ago, meaning I remember very little of it. If anyone has any corrections then please let me know and I'll fix this.

~ _Fractalus _is made up of the words for 'shatter' and 'bone' and found 'fracta' which means 'to break/shatter' and 'talus' which means specifically 'ankle bone', which was perfect, and I then amalgamated it. I wanted a spell that sounded Dark and I didn't want to use Sectusempra.


	11. Hostages, Herbology and Attractive Scars

**~ Chapter Eleven – Hostages, Herbology, and Attractive Scars ~**

_December 2nd_ _2000_

The moment Ron walked through the swinging doors and heard his trainers squeaking artlessly on the polished green linoleum of the floor, he wanted to turn around and leave. He hated hospitals. He hated the way the sharp smell of cleanliness pervaded his senses, its presence an acrid taste on a dry tongue. He hated the way silent women he assumed were Healers trotted neatly by, faces twisted into an unnatural uniform smile that he knew they didn't mean. And he especially hated the sense of death that clung to his skin long after he had scrubbed at it, trying to remove it from him. It was Hermione who made him come here. Last night in bed, tired of feeling him tossing and turning beside her, she had finally rolled over on her side, propping herself up on her elbows and told him that he had to go; he had no excuse not to.

"But I hate hospitals," Ron had pleaded uselessly, feeling his words breaking up beneath the weight of her gentle scrutiny.

"You owe it to him," Hermione had replied. "He's your friend, too – Harry's going, so why can't you?" This Ron couldn't argue with. Harry had been buried under a mountain of paperwork following Burton's escape from custody and Finchley's news and therefore unable to visit until the following day.

Ron's palms were sweaty as he lifted a hand to push open the door to the little room. Room 36B. It sounded so clinical, nothing at all like the person it currently housed. Neville was sitting propped up in bed, his damaged foot bandaged neatly so that all Ron could see of it was five fat pink toes wiggling in time to the music playing on the wireless beside the bed. Suppressing a smile, he returned Neville's wave and took a seat beside him. He had been in the hospital for four days now, as the Healers fought to find a counter-spell for the Dark magic wrought on his ankle.

"Hey," he said now, his face round with happiness at the sight of Ron. "How's it going?"

Ron shrugged non-committally. "Meh. I can't complain. How's your leg?"

"My ankle," Neville corrected. "I'm not really in any pain – I've got a potion for that, it's brilliant but they won't give me too much 'cause one of the side effects is a feeling of drunkenness. I told them I'd be completely fine with that, but they won't have any of that, so I have a slight ache but that's about it."

"Can't they fix it then?" Ron asked, picking a grape from the large bunch besides Neville's bed and popping it absent-mindedly into his mouth. Neville looked uncertain and chewed his bottom lip worriedly. His dark eyes were wide.

"That's the problem. It's really Dark magic – like that Secta-whatsit spell you and Harry found – and no one's really sure what to do about it. Harold Fleming, the main Healer, managed to fix it so that I'm not in any pain and so the bone's back inside- "(Ron winced and distracted himself by stuffing more of Neville's grapes into his mouth) " – but he also said I probably won't be able to walk properly anymore. I'll always have a limp, he said."

"But what about your job?" Ron said, forgetting his mouth was full of half-chewed grapes. "Can you still be an Auror?" Neville shook his head ruefully, and Ron swallowed quickly, bursting out indignantly, "But Moody had a limp, didn't he?, and he was an Auror for years after that! He lost an eye and he still carried on – mind you, that fake eye was a lot better than his normal one ever was, but even so!"

"Exactly," said Neville. "I mean, I've only been doing this a year or two and already I'm permanently injured. And that's without there being a war on. And when there _was_ one I still ended up with a couple of scars and a load of nightmares afterwards. Look at how Moody ended up, and he was one of the best, so where does that leave me? I've been fighting non-stop, it feels like, since I was about fifteen, and I'm tired now, Ron, really tired. I can't do it anymore – I don't _want_ to do it anymore."

"But - " Ron began, and then the words fizzed and melted on his tongue, because he really didn't have an argument.

Neville was nestled in the stiff white pillows and even though he was speaking quietly and calmly, Ron could hear the conviction in his voice, the truth behind his words. He didn't look unhappy, but now when Ron looked at him he could see, as if for the first time, the pale hue of his skin, and he didn't know if it was the harsh glare of the hospital lights or simply because he had never bothered to look, but Neville's skin looked paper-thin, so that Ron could see the rich blue of the blood that coursed beneath his wrists. The light behind Neville's eyes had dimmed a little, so that when he smiled it never quite reached them.

"What'll you do instead then?" Ron asked now, resigned. He could not change Neville's mind, and he suddenly didn't want to. "What're you gonna do for money?"

A smile ghosted Neville's face.

"I got a letter yesterday, from Professor McGonagall. She said Professor Sprout's retiring this year, and do I want to take over as Herbology professor. She said I won't be a proper teacher straight away – it's only December now, and Professor Sprout's still there, obviously, so she said I could start after Christmas and be a sort of teaching assistant, and then take over properly as of September."

"That's brilliant," said Ron, grinning. "You were always good at Herbology – and at least this way there's less chance of being blown up on the job. You'll just have to watch out for the Venomous Tentacula instead."

"I know, it sounds great," said Neville. "But I don't know anything about teaching, do I? I'm only twenty – I'll be teaching kids we went to school with, only three or four years younger than me. No one's gonna listen to me, are they?"

"Well, think about it," said Ron carefully after a moment of consideration. "Look how cool we all thought Moody was when he started – and you've done loads more than him. All they're gonna be thinking is that you're friends with the famous Harry Potter – and Ron Weasley, of course – and that you helped take down You –Know –Who."

"That's true…" mused Neville, touching his hair absent-mindedly; in the two years since school he had let it grow long, so that it reached his shoulders now, and he wound a strand around his fingers now, stress relief.

"And besides – you've already fought a load of Death Eaters, been tortured, and stood up to the Callows for a whole year there, not to mention all the stuff you've done since with the Darklings. There's no way a load of kids'll be scarier than all that. You'll be great, Neville, go for it, seriously."

"But no one'll listen to me, Ron, will they? I don't know anything about discipline," said Neville doubtfully, picking the hem of his bedsheets carefully. Ron grinned.

"Then you've got two options. Either ignore them and carry on regardless like Binns used to, or turn the whole lot of 'em into ferrets like Moody." He smiled to take the edge away from his words. "Seriously though, Neville, I wouldn't worry about it. You'll do great."

When Neville smiled now it was so bright and big it engulfed his entire face. "I'd better write back to Professor McGonagall then, hadn't I?" he said, happiness bubbling in his voice. "I'll do it now – I've got some parchment in my drawer. You haven't got a quill, have you?"

**~ OoOoO ~**

* * *

_December 15th_ _2000_

_9pm_

"For the last time, Ron, you _can't_ put the tree there; it'll completely block the doorway!"

"Well, where else can I put the bloody thing? It won't fit anywhere else!"

"Well, just try and…pivot…no, no, _twist_, it's going to get stuck in the door – Ron, TWIST it!"

"It won't bloody twist!"

"Ron – careful – there's tinsel on the floor, you're going to get – RON!"

There was a resounding crash and a yelp of pain as Ron, a string of tinsel curled neatly around his ankles, tumbled to the floor, the tree falling with him so that when Hermione rushed over to check that he wasn't hurt she first had to dig through the needles of pine that covered him. He came up sweating, his face pink with annoyance, and she knew that frown only too well.

"Thanks a lot," he said, ignoring her proffered helping hand and pulling himself up, rubbing at a sore spot on his backside.

"Well, I did warn you," said Hermione, refusing to be blamed. She folded her arms across her body, and Ron only frowned harder.

"Fat lot of good that did me! That's like warning someone there's dog muck on the pavement just as they step in it."

"Well, what else do you expect me to do, Ron?"

"For a start, you could have moved the bloody tinsel!" replied Ron, and Hermione raised her eyebrows, feeling her cheeks grow pink to match his.

"Well, it would help if putting a Christmas tree up wasn't such a huge challenge for you," she said hotly, the deepening frown on his face giving her a little more satisfaction than it should. "I didn't realise it was so difficult, or I'd have done it myself."

"Maybe if you didn't keep changing where you want it every five seconds it wouldn't _have_ to be such a challenge, Hermione," said Ron waspishly, his hair sticking up in peaks and tufts all over his head where he had alternately pulled at it in frustration and smoothed it in thought. The tree lay crumpled beside him, so that the soft carpet of the living room floor was covered with a sheet of pine needles, and he took a step forward towards her, wincing as several of them embedded themselves in his bare feet. "But hey, if I'm too thick to put a Christmas tree up, then maybe you _should_ just do it yourself. Have fun."

He strode across the room, not looking at her as he pushed past, and slammed his way from the little flat in the time it took for Hermione to unravel from within. Tears stinging her eyes, she brushed them away angrily and stooped to sweep the pile of pine needles away with a wave of her wand. It was true that she had been overly obsessive about the positioning of the Christmas tree, and it was true that she was the one who insisted that they decorate the flat by hand rather than by magic, but at the same time it was also true that this was their first Christmas in the new flat, and she wanted everything to be perfect.

And now Ron was gone.

They had been here almost a month, and the flat had been slowly filled with furniture and knick-knacks, to the point that it finally looked lived in, a world away from the horribly sterile feeling that had been here when they first moved in. Ron had been puzzled at first by Hermione's insistence that the living room be filled with photos, particularly Muggle photographs of her parents and some that Hermione had taken over the summer using an ancient and rather battered Polaroid of Robert's, and he had drawn the line at the idea of any photographs whatsoever being in the bedroom. "It's like they're watching!" he had whispered to her at the time, as if they could hear him too, and she had laughed until it hurt her lungs.

They had been here almost a month, and in that time a slow change seemed to have come over Ron, particularly over the last fortnight. He seemed moodier, snapping at her more than usual, and even Hermione was beginning to worry about the level of bickering. It had begun to go beyond their usual camaraderie, and his temper would often flare up over nothing at all. She had no fear of Ron, but this new person who seemed to be replacing him was not the Ron she knew and loved, and she didn't know how to deal with him anymore. The Ron she loved would not have stormed out over a petty quarrel over a Christmas tree – he might have argued, he might have had a tantrum over it, but he would not have walked out on her. The Ron she loved would not have cried watching a film she had put on, one that not even she cried at, and he certainly wouldn't have continued to cry for two hours after that. She didn't know this new Ron, and she wasn't sure she likes him either.

She stood, wiping her tears away. He'd have gone to the Burrow. Apart from anything else, Harry was there, and even if he wasn't, even if he was out somewhere with Ginny as he generally was these days, Molly was there too. The one thing she knew best about Ron was that food cured everything for him, and his mother's cooking was the best medicine. Angry? Eat. Tired? Upset? Eat some more. She smoothed her hair back from her cheeks and tried to recollect herself, wiping the last of her tears away on the back of her hand, and then she walked serenely from the room, intending on getting to the Burrow by foot. It was a twenty-five minute walk, and though she knew that she could be there in a third of a second by Apparating, she decided the walk would do her good. And in any case, the time would allow both her and Ron to cool down a little.

Reaching the front door she twisted the handle, wrenched it open, and got the shock of her life, crying out as a red-haired figure, also yelling, came tumbling backwards, landing sprawled on his back at her feet.

"_Ron_?" she gasped, disbelievingly. This time he allowed her to help him up and closing the front door behind them they both slumped against the hallway wall. "What the – I thought you'd gone?"

"I was going to," said Ron, staring hard at his fingers. "But I closed the door and then realised I was being an arse, but I didn't have my keys, so I thought I'd wait for you to open it. I reckoned you had to eventually."

"Let me get this straight," said Hermione, unable to keep the incredulity from twisting her voice. "You decided that, rather than just knocking, or even Apparating back inside, it would make more sense to lean against the door and wait for me to open it, even though that might not have been for hours and hours? You're such an idiot, Ron."

Ron continued to look at his fingers, as if all the answers would be written there. "I know it's stupid. I didn't think you'd want to talk to me for a bit – I was being a total prat. For what it's worth I'm sorry."

"It's no good being sorry," said Hermione pensively. "Sorry never helps anything." She caught Ron's crestfallen look and hurried to correct herself, to make him feel better; anything to take away the sadness in his eyes. "I didn't mean – I just – something's been different about you lately, Ron, and I know that's the reason you've been being such an arse lately. I can't help you if I don't know what it is."

"It's nothing," said Ron evasively, and Hermione gripped his arm, looking at him so fiercely that for a moment he forgot who she was.

"Shut up," she said, tiger-eyes flashing dangerously. "Don't _ever_ say that, Ron – don't _ever_ lie to me. And especially don't ever suggest that I don't know you well enough to know when something's bothering you. I'm not stupid, Ron."

"I know you're not stupid," said Ron sadly, and Hermione softened a little, afraid her tough-love approach had been too strong.

"Then tell me what's wrong," she said gently, stroking the taut skin of his wrist soothingly. "I can't help you if I don't know."

"I'm scared," Ron whispered, and Hermione moved closer to him, lacing her fingers through his own.

"It's okay, you can tell me," she said, misunderstanding, and Ron lifted his eyes to her at last so that she can see the tears that brim there.

"No," he said. "I mean I'm _scared_." He whispered the words, as if to speak them out loud would be an admission too painful to contemplate, and each of them seared Hermione's heart like a brand as she realised exactly what he was telling her. "Neville's quitting. He says he can't do it anymore – he already won't be able to walk properly again, and he says he doesn't want to end up like Moody. What if I end up like Moody? What if I end up scarred and with half my limbs missing, and not trusting anyone, not even you or Harry or my own family? I don't want to end up paranoid and alone."

"You won't end up alone…" Hermione told him, but Ron hadn't finished.

"You don't know that. You might say you won't leave me, even if I do get paranoid, but what if you don't have a choice? What if you get ki- taken away?" Ron changed course at the last moment, as if the idea was too hard to voice, and his eyes were locked on Hermione's now, searching them desperately for answers she simply did not have. "What if you all do? I know there's no war now and it's not like it was when Moody was an Auror, but we're still fighting, aren't we? Me and Harry, we're still fighting, we're still looking for these people and they're still gonna try and kill us any chance they get, they're still gonna try and take away everything we've fought so hard for, aren't they? Aren't they?"

Hermione knew he was genuinely asking her, and she didn't say anything, but pulled him closer to her, so that she could feel the solid weight of his head on her shoulder, and she laced her arms tightly around him, so that whichever way he turned she was beside him, so that every beat of her heart thudded against his skin and she hoped that he understood her silent meaning, her unspoken message to him.

"Is this why you've been acting so weird?" she asked, and she felt him nod against her shoulder. "Okay. Don't worry so much. You've faced a lot worse than this before, haven't you? The real danger's passed, as far as I'm concerned. And to be perfectly honest, this 'First' guy sounds like he's completely mad, but he also sounds like he's not really sure what he's doing. So stop worrying, okay? Nothing's going to happen. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Right, so let's finish putting the tree up and then we'll have dinner. How does that – gah!"

A sudden loud crack made them both jump as Harry appeared before them in the hall, sweating and with his hair even messier than usual. His glasses were hanging off one ear and he adjusted them quickly, panting slightly and with a look of panic on his face.

"Harry?!"

"Sorry – I should have warned you I was coming but there's no time – Ron, we've got to go, something's happened - "

"Woah, woah, slow down," said Ron, standing carefully. "What's happened?"

"It's Burton – he's done it – he's done what Finchley said they were trying to do – he's taken a hostage, we've got to go, come on - "

"Wait, wait – who's he taken? Who's the hostage?"

"Siobhan Morrison – you know, the singer? Come on, we've got to go, there's no time," moaned Harry, and then he was pulling at Ron's arm, so that Ron just had time to kiss Hermione goodbye and then in a whirl of chaos and confusion Harry was Apparating, taking Ron with him, so that the last image he saw before he was spun away was Hermione's frightened face.

**~ OoOoO ~**

**_December 15__th_**

_**9.47 p.m**_

Siobhan Morrison, a slim and pretty young woman of twenty-three, was born to Muggle parents and was perhaps best known for her beauty more so than her string of popular singles, impressive though they may be. Currently the darling of the Muggle media, her picture was rarely out of the newspapers and magazines, and her increasing fan-base was such that even those in the magical community were beginning to recognise her songs and her face. She had been planning the country-wide tour of Great Britain for the past eight months, to promote her latest album, and she intended later on to continue her tour worldwide, riding on the sails of her undoubted success at home. She had planned everything down to the last detail – the countries and cities she would visit, the hotels she would stay in, the venues she would play at, even the meals she would eat.

What Siobhan Morrison didn't plan, however, was that she would find herself, as she did now, sitting in a darkened and musty-smelling room, bound tightly to a steel chair, her pretty head lolling at an unnatural angle and surrounded by white-cloaked men. Perhaps it didn't matter that she didn't plan this, because she didn't know where she was, or even that she _was_ here. All she saw as she exited the Kensington Star hotel by the back door (to avoid the waiting phalanx of ever-present photographers, naturally) was a grimly-smiling man, and a flash of red light before all sensation was wiped from her and she folded neatly to the ground. She snored softly now, unaware of her surroundings. In her pale dreams she was at home on stage, singing her heart out, and perhaps that was the best place she could possibly be, because what danger could possibly befall her under a thousand watching eyes?

All around the large room the men in their pristine white cloaks shuffled nervously, waiting. All there was to do now was wait. One, a short and rather tubby man of perhaps thirty, tapped out an uneasy one-two rhythm on the chipped windowsill; a vicious look from the tallest of them, the leader, returned his fingers to his sides, where he fiddled anxiously with the hem of his robes instead. The man who was their leader walked slowly towards their prize, circling her smoothly, the clack of his footsteps echoing off the silent walls. Extending one long finger he lifted her chin carefully, tipping her pretty face up to the half-light so that he may look at her properly; her head lolled backwards at this new angle, and her mouth dropped open slightly so that he could see the straight edge of her teeth, the pink of her tongue. Her long blonde hair was slightly damp with sweat and curled around her face, and beneath her flickering eyelids he could spy the occasional flash of deep green.

"Pity," he said, a wolfish smile curling around his lips, and then he turned to the group of men before him, turning slowly on the spot so that he could address each of them. There were around twenty men besides him, and each of them felt the burn as he looked into their eyes. "We wait. No doubt the fools will know what has happened to the woman by now, and when they come we shall be prepared. Now is the time for you to prove yourselves worthy of the First's cause, worthy to wear the white robes of the Riddlers. Do what is needed."

With a flick of his hand his wand appeared, seemingly as if from nowhere, and he pointed it at the sleeping woman now, pressing it cruelly into the soft hollow of her collarbone, staring menacingly at the men.

"Do not disappoint."

**~ OoOoO ~ **

The house Harry and Ron knew Siobhan Morrison to be held in was not a house at all, but an old disused warehouse situated on the outskirts of what used to be an industrial sector of town; abandoned around nine years ago, it stood now as a dusty and slightly dilapidated monument to the past, and provided a perfect base camp for the Riddlers current plot.

"I don't know how many of them there are, but we need to be prepared, because these people will be waiting for us and they won't show any mercy," Harry had told an assembled group of Aurors in the Ministry before they set out for this place. They stood there, armed with an assortment of defences provided by George, including Shield Hats which would be effective against everything except the Unforgivable Curses, and shoes bewitched with a Silencing Charm that meant their footfalls would not be heard; some of them had stood with their arms folded, some nodded grimly, but all of them wore the same tight expression they wear now, a curious mixture of fear and anticipation that caused some of them, like Ron, to bounce slightly on the balls of their feet.

"We've gone beyond Darklings now," he had continued. "These ones are calling themselves Riddlers – they believe in Voldemort's aims and they're trying to bring back the 'glory days', as they call them. This is like the Death Eaters all over again, so be on your guard at all times."

Now, the Aurors surrounded the warehouse. Wands gripped tightly between determined fingers they awaited Harry's signal to move in. The plan was simple: do what you have to, but the girl was the main priority. Crouching in the long grass beside Harry, Ron shivered slightly as the long fingers of an icy December wind wrapped themselves cruelly around his body, and he wished he had had time to change into warmer clothes than the thin T-shirt and jeans he was wearing at home. He puffed cold air out, watching his breath tangle in the air like lace, and tried to tell himself that the reason his hands were shaking slightly was because of the frigid air and not because he was afraid. He looked sidelong at Harry, seeing the way his keen eyes narrowed in concentration beneath straight black brows, and decided that whatever happened he wouldn't show an ounce of fear, because he knew that Harry wouldn't.

"Now," Harry breathed beside him, and he had shot green sparks up into the air before Ron had time to blink; pulling his Invisibility Cloak over himself he launched himself forward, breaking into a sprint with other Aurors running beside him, each wearing one of Fred and George's Shield Hats, and Ron scrambled to his feet, angry with himself for not having been prepared, pushing himself to run harder, faster, so that he caught up with Harry easily.

They spilled into the warehouse, and the Riddlers were ready for them. Shafts of light, reds and blues and greens, shot down at them, a rainbow of hatred, and though the warehouse was dark Ron could see the intense fury woven into the face of every Riddler there, lit up by their curses. Recovering quickly as the bright emerald light of what could only have been a Killing Curse skimmed so close to his face he felt his skin tingle in the breeze cast by it, Ron ducked and fired a Stunning Spell in the vague direction of his attacker, hearing a soft "Oh" that told him he was successful. Another spell was cast straight at his head by a Riddler, and only his Shield Hat saved him, so that the Stunning Spell rebounded upon its caster and left him lying flat on the dusty floor.

And now the Aurors were fanning out, and Harry saw with a jolt of horror that there were at least twenty Riddlers and only eight Aurors. He could not see the girl at all. Beside him he could see Tristan sending angry-looking sparks towards a thin Riddler whose lank blonde hair whipped greasily around his face; to his left Ron was duelling two more Riddlers; he turned suddenly and slashed at the shorter of the two, crying "_Stupefy_!" just as one was pointing his wand at Ron and saying "Avad-", because a dead Riddler was no use to either Harry or the Ministry.

Satisfied that Ron did not need his help Harry stepped over the fallen Riddler and moved quickly around the warehouse, searching for the girl, crouching slightly and wishing for once that he were shorter so that Cloak would cover him fully; he knew his feet slipped out occasionally, although he supposed that in the chaos of a battle no one would be paying attention to a pair of disembodied feet creeping in the shadows. All around him he could hear the cries of battle, the screams as vicious curses landed their marks, and he prayed that none of the voices that resonated with pain belonged to Ron, or indeed any of his friends and colleagues. Coming to a long staircase that led to a row of what appeared to be little offices, Harry paused, pulling the Cloak down lower so that he was more hidden, and then he shuffled hurriedly up the stairs, aware with every passing second that time might be running out for Siobhan Morrison.

The door to the first room was ajar, and he moved into the room as carefully as he could, trying not to move the door anymore so that his position was kept secret, and sure enough, there tied to a chair beside the window was the unconscious body of Siobhan Morrison. He looked around carefully, his incredulity over her lack of guards almost tangible, and then he ran carefully over to her, untying her bonds and trying to rub life back into her limbs. He whispered, "_Rennervate_", but Siobhan did not stir, and Harry paused, confused: she was clearly being made to sleep under some enchantment he did not know the counter-spell to. A noise in the doorway made him whip his head around, wand drawn.

"Easy, Harry – it's me. Need help?"

It was Tristan, and Harry felt his heartbeat pounding painfully against the back of his throat in relief. Beyond him Harry could still hear the cries of the fighting down below, and he surmised that Tristan must have fought his way up the stairs.

"Yeah, we need to get her out of here," Harry said. "Help me lift her." Tristan moved into the room and gently lifted her arms, trying to support her weight equally between himself and Harry.

"You fool," came a cold voice from the doorway, and Harry turned, dismayed, to see a tall figure standing there.

Gerald Burton was not a particularly remarkable man in appearance - his silvery hair was cut short and close to his face, and his nose was a little large for his face – nor was he especially well-built, having a short and slightly stocky frame and square shoulders, but it was the little details that made him fearsome. The harsh edge of his jaw; the malice that danced feverishly in his eyes as he took in the scene before him; the way his voice seemed to resonate with barely restrained glee.

"Unhand the girl," he said, directing his comments to Harry, and when Harry shook his head fiercely he smiled, amused. "Unhand her."

"No," said Harry flatly, and this time Burton actually laughed.

"Perhaps you misunderstand me," he said genially, and he moved aside so that Harry could see the two Riddlers standing behind him, each of their stony faces set into expressions of grim determination. "I said, unhand her."

"You're not having her," replied Harry, sounding far braver than he felt, his wand trained on Burton, and he shifted Siobhan's weight on his shoulders so that she rested more easily against him. Beside him, Tristan's stare was so intensely trained upon the Riddlers that Harry wondered why they were not burned beneath his hatred.

"I don't want her," replied Burton languidly, that same amused smile still on his lips. "But if you do not stand aside, Potter, I will kill her just as I will kill you."

Harry bristled and narrowed his eyes at the short man before him, wishing desperately that he could curse him, but not daring to lest Siobhan be hit in the crossfire. "If you don't want her, why don't you just let her go then?"

"Very well," replied Burton, and before Harry had a chance to react he pointed his wand at Siobhan and cried, "_Resurrectio_!"

Almost instantaneously Harry felt Siobhan stir beneath his fingertips; she opened her eyes blearily, blinking in the sudden light, and then, taking in the scene around her, she began to scream, struggling violently against Harry and Tristan.

"Let me go!" she cried, the terror in her eyes absolute. "Where am I? What's going on – _let me go, let me go!" _And all the time she was scratching, clawing, struggling to be free, surprising Harry and Tristan with her wiry strength, and finally she broke free, running towards the doorway, which Burton and the Riddlers had stepped aside from...

...and Burton was too quick for her, reaching a hand out as she ran by and grasping her long hair, so that she was pulled short and in a heartbeat he had wrapped his fingers in her hair, so that however she struggled she could not break free. Forcing her on her knees before him, he twisted her so that she faced Harry and Tristan and casually pointed the tip of his wand against the soft flesh of her throat.

"Now then," he said pleasantly, as if this were a polite conversation they had all been having. "You have a choice, Potter. Your life," - he tugged Siobhan's hair viciously, so that she gasped and choked on the tears in her throat, too terrified to shed them - "Or the girl's?"

"What do you want with her?" Harry said, his hands trembling slightly from longing to curse Burton into a thousand tiny bits, but he didn't dare now that he held Siobhan in front of him like a human shield. "Let her go!"

"Make your decision, Potter, or I make it for you!"

"You'll kill her whatever I do," spat Harry, his anger coursing through him so strongly he could feel his skin fizzing. "Let her go!"

Burton laughed once more, with genuine amusement. "True– it's only a Muggle," he said, and he twisted his fingers cruelly tight in Siobhan's hair. "One less will only improve things."

"Then why haven't you killed her before now?" demanded Harry, stalling for time, wondering where Ron was, where any of the Aurors were. "Why wait?"

"Well, it got you here, didn't it Potter?" Burton replied simply. "You have five seconds. Your life, or the girl's?"

Harry was spared answering by a sudden roar behind Burton; one of the Riddler's beside him had fallen, Stunned, and the other had turned, firing spells down the stairs outside the door, screaming "_Scindoviscus!" _so that a howl of pain went up, and then with a roar of fury and a flash of lights that Riddler had fallen too.

Burton's faces settled into a scowl of rage, and grunting in fury he lifted his wand and screamed, "_Avada Kedavra!"_ – there was a blinding flash of green light – Harry squeezed his eyes closed as a familiar whoosh of air passed over him – nothing happened – he opened his eyes –

Tristan lay face down on the floor in front of him, his face utterly still and fixed with an expression of satisfied determination, his dark eyes glassy as he stared straight ahead, seeing nothing, and his pale lips twisted in the slightest of smiles.

"No!" screamed Burton, and flinging Siobhan aside he lunged at Harry, his true target, but Harry was too quick for him; stepping over the body of his fallen comrade Harry lifted his wand to point it directly between Burton's hate-filled eyes and cried, "_Stupefy!_" with all the conviction he could muster.

Caught by surprise, Burton fell backwards instantly, but Siobhan was lying sobbing and trembling on the floor and as his body fell it seemed to twist artlessly in the air, tripping over her prone form, and Harry watched as if in slow motion as Burton tumbled down the stairs behind him, his shattered body landing awkwardly at the base with a sickening crack. He twitched; once; twice, and then he lay eerily still, a stream of blood trickling from the back of his head.

Leaving the little room, Siobhan's choking gasps filling the air, Harry rushed out, his wand drawn, but downstairs everything was utterly silent. Bodies littered the floor like autumn leaves, crumpled and red and broken, and he prayed that they were Riddlers rather than Aurors. A flash of red sent him running down to the body it came from; kneeling beside the body, the lump in his throat the size of his fist, he turned the body onto its back as gently as he could, begging, praying, silently offering up everything he could think of if only that this wasn't true, this wasn't right…

"Harry?"

Harry whipped his head around at the familiar voice to see Ron standing behind him, his face pinched and white, and his relief was so strong he felt light-headed for a moment, so that all he could think of was to rush towards his friend and wrap his arms around him, weakened by the knowledge that he was alive and safe.

"Thank God, I thought you'd – Ron? Are you OK?"

Harry released Ron and Ron smiled faintly, but he was swaying on the spot, his face pale and grey, and he could hear Harry's words as though from far away, so that the effort of concentrating on his friend's words made his head spin; he felt so ill, his head kept dipping around and he was trying to focus but all he could see and hear and taste was the sharp red pain throbbing in his leg, the wetness that was pooling somewhere below, and now Harry was so far away Ron couldn't even see him; he couldn't see anything, he couldn't feel anything, he was drowning, he was too far away….

"Ron? RON!" Harry caught his friend just as his legs gave out beneath him, and signalling to the nearest Auror he cried, "Someone help me! I need to get Ron to St Mungo's – someone help!"

**~ OoOoO ~**

_**December 15th**_

_**11.33 pm – St. Mungo's**_

"Harry – please, just sit down, tell me what's happened."

Ginny was used to Harry's pacing by now; she was used to the way he dealt with stressful situations, and she knew that only gentle coaxing would ever persuade answers from him. Ordinarily when he returned from a mission she didn't say a word to him about it, allowing him to come to her, waiting until he was ready to talk to her about it and knowing that eventually he would, the way he always eventually opened up to her about the nightmares she knew he suffered from in the dead of night. Tonight, however, was different. She had never seen him so angry, so agitated, in her life. Tonight he was positively livid.

"It's wrong, it's all wrong," he said, balling his hands into fists so tight the white skin looked as though it would crack beneath the hot pressure of his rage. "This shouldn't still be happening, Gin, it just shouldn't, not ever."

"You're not hurt, are you?" Ginny asked gently, and Harry paused in his violent pacing for a moment.

"No, I'm not," he said flatly. "And that's the worst part, because other people _are_ – look at Ron, he's upstairs with deep cuts on his leg and chest, look at poor Tristan Silvas. He took a Killing Curse that was aimed at me, it should have been me lying somewhere, it should have been him escorting my body back, not the other way around -"

"You can't blame yourself for things that are out of your control, Harry," Ginny said, and Harry sat down heavily on the seat beside her. Luckily, the waiting room of the hospital was generally empty, and Harry had been largely able to vent freely. He shredded an abandoned polystyrene cup beneath his long fingers now.

"They aren't out of my control, Gin," he said heavily. "Or what's the point in being an Auror? These things shouldn't still be happening, though, that's the point, Voldemort's been dead nearly three years now and innocent people are still dying because of him, _decent_ honest people are still being hurt and killed in his name and _it's not right_."

"I know it's not right," Ginny soothed, taking the paper cup from his hands gently and squeezing them in her own. She stroked his cheek softly; he turned his head away, too agitated to be comforted tactilely. "But that's what you're here for, right? You can make sure things like this don't happen anymore, and it _will_ happen eventually, but it takes time. You can't keep taking it this hard every time, Harry, it'll all get too much eventually. You've already got a step closer to stopping this – you've caught Finchley, Burton's dead, you've got the name of the ringleader. It's just time now. Okay?"

Harry felt himself nodding and suddenly all he could do was pull her into a tight hug, trying to communicate his gratitude to her without words.

"I've got to go," he said eventually, breaking apart though it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do right then. He knew he was in for a very dark time when eventually he could close his eyes, and having her close by seemed to stave off the bad dreams, at least temporarily. "I need to get back to the Ministry and file the reports, I need to tell Filkins that we've got six of the Riddlers in custody, and I need to tell Tristan's family what's happened. Tell Ron I'll see him the second I can, will you?"

She didn't say anything but he knew that she would, and he leant in to kiss her, hungrily, so that when he pulled back from her with a huge force of will he was surprised to see the wetness of tears on her cheeks, because her eyes were dry, and he realised with a jolt of shock that they were his own.

"I'll be back when I can," he said, and when he turned on the spot to Apparate he held onto her hand until the very last moment.

_**Meanwhile, upstairs**_

Ron couldn't breathe.

Every time he tried he simply coughed and wheezed and spluttered. It was not, however, because of his injuries and it was not because of some unseen spell; it was simply that Hermione had wrapped her arms around him and was hugging him so tightly it was cutting off the air supply in his chest. And she had been doing it for approximately eight minutes and seventeen seconds.

"Hermione – I'm okay, you can let go now – I said _you can let go now_," he smiled, and she eventually, unwillingly, loosened her arms from around him and sat on the chair beside his bed, her face a mask of tears.

"Oh, Ron, what happened?" she asked softly, her face pink from crying. "They wouldn't t-tell me, I c-came as soon as I h-heard, but what d-did they do?"

"It's just a scratch," Ron joked but seeing her expression he continued more truthfully, "I hit one of the Riddlers with a Stunning Spell and his mate didn't like it, so he sent a couple of Dark spells at me, I dunno what they were, and he got my chest and my thigh. I'm alright, though – it doesn't hurt, one of the Healers put this orangey paste thing on it, but they reckon I'll be scarred for life."

He saw Hermione's face crumple again at the words 'scarred for life' and continued bracingly, "No, no don't cry, Hermione, it's okay, I've always wanted a scar anyway, since I was little. And Harry's living proof it makes you seem more interesting. Look, I'll show you the one on my chest, it's not that bad."

Before she could say no he was unbuttoning the front of his pyjamas. She could see the thin muscles of his chest and there, cleaving his skin precisely in two, was a long neat line covered in a thick orange paste, as if someone had bisected him exactly from his left shoulder to just below his ribs on his right side. "Cool, isn't it?" he said, grinning. "We can play noughts and crosses on me, now!"

"Ron, enough joking," said Hermione, sniffing slightly and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. True to form, she was fully dressed in jeans and a shirt, rather than her pyjamas, in spite of the fact that it was nearly midnight; whenever Ron was called away on a job she never went to bed until she knew that he was at home and safe, not even changing her clothes just in case he needed her at an awkward time. "I don't understand how you can be finding this funny – not three hours ago you were telling me this is the exact thing you were terrified would happen!"

"I know," said Ron, sobering instantly. "But it's an occupational hazard, isn't it? And I'd much rather be fighting alongside Harry and risking my life to try and make things right than be sitting at home hoping everything's okay and waiting for other people to sort everything out for me. And it is scary, it's bloody terrifying, but you get to a certain point where you think, sod it, if this is it for me then so be it. I'd rather go down fighting like Moody than hide away while everyone else dies just because I was too scared to fight with them."

And suddenly he couldn't breathe again, because Hermione had launched herself at him once more, and she was stealing all the breath from his mouth, kissing him so fiercely he wondered what the magic sentence was and wished he knew so that he could file it away for future use.

"So what's happening now?" she asked at last, pulling back from him.

"Well, Harry was up earlier – he said we got about six of the Riddlers, they're all gonna be interrogated, obviously, and Burton's dead along with two more Riddlers, but there's still about nine or ten of them that got away, so obviously we need to track them down as soon as possible."

"What about our side?" Hermione asked gently.

"As far as I know, only one loss. Tristan Silvas – he was only twenty-three, he took a Killing Curse meant for Harry. Poor git. I think I'm the worst injured – I've not seen anyone else in here so far, so they must have had fairly minor injuries."

"And the girl? The one that got kidnapped?"

"I don't know. I assume she'll be checked over and then have her memory wiped. It's not the sort of thing you'd want to remember, really, is it?"

"No. I suppose it isn't."


	12. Working 9 To 5

**~ Chapter Twelve – Working 9 to 5 ~**

**Monday January 3rd** **2001**

"Don't you dare be sick again, Neville, _don't you dare_, I'm not cleaning it up again."

It wasn't that Ron was unsympathetic to the fact that Neville was the palest he had ever seen anyone turn in their life, even surpassing the time Charlie had stumbled home fresh from his first discovery of the dubious charms of rum and the freckles on his greyed skin had looked like dirt in contrast. Nor was it that Ron didn't care that Neville's hands were trembling so violently with nerves that he had managed to slop all of the bottle of water down the front of his new robes, so that Harry had had to spend much of the journey so far siphoning the damp patches away with his wand so that Neville didn't appear to have developed incontinence on his first day. It was simply that, well, there's only so many times you can clean away vomit before the smell refuses to leave with it, clinging stubbornly to the room, and Ron thought that six times was dangerously close to that lethal number. And as if that weren't enough to be dealing with, this was the only empty carriage now, and it wasn't as if they could move, either – it took them long enough to sneak on board and if they had to leave the carriage there'd be no escaping the excited students

Ron scowled at Harry slightly. It was his stupid idea, anyway. Since the loss of Tristan Silvas last month in the raid on the warehouse, Harry had become a man possessed, absolutely obsessed with his vision of a New and Better Auror Department. He hadn't actually named it that yet, but he repeated that phrase constantly, his voice thick with hidden anger, and whenever he said the words it made Ron picture them shimmering in the air, capitalised and made solid somehow by the force of his determination. Already slightly senior to Ron, who pretended to be more annoyed about it than he really was mostly because if he was honest he liked the fact that he could have more lie-ins than Harry could, Harry had adopted this vision as his personal mission in life, and was adamant that deaths like Tristan's were preventable. This passionate determination was what led him to decide that Neville was still a potential target, and that even though he no longer worked for the Department, he still merited an escort to the school, just in case a rogue Riddler should happen upon him before he reached the encompassing protection of the Hogwarts castle. And who else could Harry trust to do this job properly, but himself and Ron?

"We're almost there, Neville, can't you hold it in or something?"

The first hurdle had come when Ron had pointed out that the three of them had fairly well-known faces, particularly Harry, and that Platform Nine and Three Quarters would be crawling with students, some of whom would presumably remember all of them from their own school days and the rest of whom would recognise their faces from newspaper articles. This, naturally, would therefore make actually boarding the train a slight problem, since he somehow didn't quite relish the idea of being pumped for answers all the way to Hogwarts. Nor, he suspected, did Harry or Neville. Harry had, therefore, come up with the bright idea of arriving at Kings Cross ridiculously early, creeping aboard the empty train and magically erecting thick drapes to block any curious glances into their compartment, which had also now been magically locked. This, of course, was not to mention the fact that Neville's limbs appeared to have become jelly, so extreme were his nerves, so that he wobbled around the platform. He had not said a single word all day so far, his only sounds being retching and gasping.

And now to top off what had already been an unspeakably awful day, involving getting up at an hour too early to even be allowed to exist in Ron's opinion and sitting on a train for four bum-numbing hours before it even pulled away from the station, Ron could hear the faint _gup gup gup_ sound curling in the back of Neville's throat that warned him that Violent Puking Session Number Seven was about to begin. Turning away from Neville and trying to block out the disgust of what he knew will come next, Ron settled more comfortably in his seat and stared blankly out of the thick window at the rapidly darkening sky. Tracing the oblique pattern of the stars against the glass with a long finger, his thoughts were drawn inexorably towards Hermione, and he wondered what she was doing right now, while he was miles away from her and wouldn't be seeing her for several hours.

He hated leaving her like this. It wasn't that he was afraid for her – most of the time she could out-duel him anyway and with very little effort, and she was more than capable of taking care of herself, so his presence would not exactly act as a safeguard against danger. It was more that if anything should happen to him while he was apart from her, he would only want her face to be the last imprint on his mind, the last thing he saw. He knew it was ridiculous, but the more and more he was away from her lately the more he was overcome by the absurd sensation that he was losing her. On some of his longer trips he had woken, panic wrapped so tightly around his heart that it bit cruelly into his flesh, making him gasp, in the smallest part of the night, terrified that he couldn't recall her face, and it was only when consciousness had flushed all illogical thought from his mind that he could relax, the memory of her smile keeping him warm. She would never say it but he knew that Hermione disliked his long trips away from her, trips that would only increase in length as time went on. It was why he would always come home first, even if for just five minutes before he must continue to the Ministry to file reports, so that she could see with her own eyes that he was safe, so that he in turn could see the same thing.

He supposed that Harry felt this too, the anxiety of the separation, the warm dizzy relief of the reunion. He supposed because he didn't know. He didn't discuss his sister's relationship with Harry, just as Harry didn't discuss it either, and now for the first time Ron appreciated how strange this was, because Ron talked about Hermione at every opportunity, to the extent that Harry had asked him to stop on more than one occasion, pleading that she was still one of his best friends and that some things should remain a mystery. Ron couldn't help it, though; it was simply that he loved her so much, and he wondered why Harry did not want to talk about Ginny until his jaw broke from overuse, until others begged for his silence, just as Ron did about Hermione. Was it simply that he didn't care enough about Ginny?

Ron didn't know, but he squirmed in his seat, made uncomfortable by the notion that his happiness was not necessarily universal, and he resolved to ask Harry about this at the earliest possible opportunity.

**~ OoOoO ~**

"That's everyone out, Gin, you can close up now."

"Thank God for that," said Ginny, bolting the door of the shop and leaning her back against it, her arms folded and an expression of relief across her face. "I thought that last wizard was never going to leave."

"Old Shingleton?" George asked coming out of the backroom, his arms full of boxes of Weasley's Wildfire Whizzbangs. "He comes in every Monday – here, take one of these boxes, Gin, they're bloody heavy, cheers – to get his Super Stinkbombs, says it keeps the gnomes out of his gladiolas. Personally I don't care what he uses them for, as long as he keeps buying them six boxes a time."

"Well, lets just tidy and cash up and then we can go home, I'm starving," said Ginny, settling the heavy box of fireworks down in their display cabinet to replace those sold today. George didn't answer but swept over to the till in response, which he opened and took out fistfuls of glittering gold and silver. Ginny watched with mild awe as he continued to make piles of the coins on the countertop, piles as deep as her palm-span, her head-length, her forearm, counting under his breath as he goes.

"Wow," she breathed, and her brother looked up, frowning slightly. "Sorry, I just never realised how much money this place actually takes. There must easily be about a thousand Galleons there -"

"One thousand and eighteen Galleons, twelve Sickles and three Knuts, to be exact," said George happily, smiling at his sister. "Oh, and a peanut. And a button. Hmmm…I should really start looking at what people give me instead of just sticking it in the till." Setting aside his takings he looked at his sister properly, as if for the first time in days. "I dunno why you're looking so surprised, anyway – you've been working here long enough to know how much we take in a day."

"Yeah, but I never normally stay until closing time, do I? This is the first time I've ever seen you count the takings. I never know how we've done."

George frowned, confused. "Don't I tell you?"

Ginny shook her head. "Nope, never. I never realised it was that much though. Fred would be really proud of you."

George didn't answer her. He paused in his actions, his palm poised to sweep a pile of the gold into a heavy sackcloth bag, utterly frozen. Even his expression was fixed, his jaw set tightly and his cobalt eyes suddenly dark and staring straight ahead at the backs of his hands, as if his freckles might spell out the answers he seemed to be seeking. His hair, longish now and flecked with gold, fell over his eyes, unchecked by the ear that was no longer there. And then, as if someone had flicked an on-switch, he seemed to realise what he was doing and where he was, and he continued to sweep the gold into the bag, as if nothing had happened and Ginny never mentioned their lost brother.

"George?" Ginny tried, but she received no response. George seemed to be ignoring any attempt at restarting the conversation, and as he tidied away all of his gold he talked brightly, half to himself, reminding himself of the stock he needed to replenish, the phone calls he needed to make first thing tomorrow morning, the order forms he needed to process, and the research he needed to carry out.

"I know what you're trying to do, and that's why I'm not going to apologise for saying that, George," Ginny continued stubbornly over his chatter, her head held erect with self-righteousness, her jaw set and her eyes fierce. "Because it's true. If Fred could see how well you've done with the business he'd be really proud of you."

"Well, he can't, can he?" George's answer was so harshly spat out that it took Ginny aback for a moment or two, shocked that her normally jovial and gentle brother could wield such venom. She was about to flare up in response but then she noticed the way the words sounded different, resonating awkwardly in the air, as if they were broken off at the ends, and when he finally looked up at her she could see the tears in the backs of his eyes, and she realised that he was asking her a real question, one she had no answer for and could not possibly respond to.

"I think he can," she said, trying anyway, and George closed his eyes, so that one rogue tear wound its way stubbornly down his cheek. She waited for him to wipe it away, and when he didn't she continued, speaking words she didn't quite know if she believed, weaving sentences so determinedly that soon she started to feel that if she was able to say them with such conviction then they could only be true . "I think you don't just go nowhere when you die, I think some part of you lives on somehow, and _that_ part of Fred would be so proud of you for carrying on with the shop - "

"I only did it because you made me," sniffed George, his eyes rimmed with red and his voice hoarse. He turned away from her quickly and wiped his face with the back of his hand. "I wouldn't have done it otherwise. I'd have left it to rot."

"It doesn't matter," said Ginny gently. "You still opened it properly, and look how well it's doing now. Fred wouldn't have wanted you to wallow anyway; he'd have wanted you to get on with your life."

"I'm not wallowing…" George began half-heartedly, but Ginny's eyes were full of such softness and understanding that he could feel the tears swelling at the base of his throat again and the words congealed in his throat, choking him, so that he had to turn away once more and wipe his eyes. "I'm not wallowing," he repeated, more strongly now.

"No," agreed Ginny. "But you're not getting on with your life either, are you?"

"I am…"

"No, George, you're not. You barely talk to anyone unless you have to, if you're not shut up in your room then you're here working constantly, and I think the last time you laughed was probably before Teddy was born. You're not _you_ anymore, and that's not right." George looked so wretched standing there, fiddling absent-mindedly with the hem of his shirt, that Ginny felt her heart swell and it took all of her self-control not to hug him there and then, because she knew that this simple action could be enough to unlace him, and she knew he needed this little bit of dignity right now. "Do you even see Lee anymore?"

"Sometimes," started George. "We're both really busy…" he ended lamely, and suddenly he was irritated with himself for making excuses to his little sister.

"I thought so," said Ginny, no trace of smugness in her voice. "You can't keep avoiding everyone, George, and you can't live the rest of your life alone – you never have before, and it's not natural. Do you really think Fred would want to you be like this? No, I'll rephrase that – if it was the other way around, would you want Fred to be like that?"

"Never," said George fiercely, and when Ginny smiled she could see the faintest of grins lifting the corners of his mouth in return, one that she knew instinctively was genuine.

"Well, think about it. You're not the only one who lost a brother, me and Ron and the others did too, and Mum and Dad lost a son, and we're all carrying on, aren't we? And I know it's harder for you but you need to carry on now too."

"I know I do," said George, and his smile cracked wider now, gratitude shimmering faintly in his eyes.

"Good," she said, satisfied. "Does that mean you'll go back to testing the new pranks out on Percy too?"

George lifted his eyebrows in mock-incredulity at her, so high that they disappeared beneath his newly-grown fringe, and lifted a faux-outraged hand to his chest. "My dear sweet baby sister, what on earth do you take me for?"

Ginny folded her arms and looked levelly at him. "Is that a yes or a no?"

"Well," said George, reaching for his coat. "Why don't you go get the Hair-Raising Sprays from the back room and maybe you'll find out. See you at home, Gin."

"See you," Ginny replied, and she didn't move until she had seen George begin to spin, until he was ready to Apparate, and just as he disappeared with a loud crack she could swear she heard a faint whisper in the air, words that hung discreetly in the shape of a thank you.

**~ OoOoO ~**

Hermione Granger did not deal well with stressful situations; at least, that is, not domestic or work-related ones. Put her in a room full of Death Eaters and she'd think of an escape route within minutes; place her under extreme torture and she'd still confess only lies; but shove a pile of papers on obscure and complicated elfish laws onto her already cluttered desk and tell her she has only three hours to compile a report on them, and watching her panic and flap around would quickly swing from being highly amusing to downright pitiful.

"Kess!" she cried now, her hair coming loosely around her face, stress allowing it to easily break free of the laborious encasings she placed it in this morning before work. "Kess, where did you put the document on that 1912 Decree on the Regulation of Elfish Magic?"

"Relax, hun," said Kestrel, breezing into the little office with a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and an enormous pile of papers balanced in the other. She set the mug down in front of Hermione, who seized it gratefully, and sifted effortlessly through the pile of papers, before crying triumphantly. "Here we are – 1912, Elfish Magic. Oh, and I managed to dig out that Statute on the terms of elfish enslavement you were asking about."

Hermione looked up from her mug of coffee. "The 1938 Geneva consortium ruling?"

"The very same," smiled Kess, her long blonde hair swirling around her face in a way entirely dissimilar to the chaotic tumbling of Hermione's curls.

"You are an absolute _angel_, Kess," cried Hermione, practically weeping with happiness. "Honestly, you're a star."

"Naturally," said Kess, curtseying neatly and handing over the relevant documents. Hermione tried not to snatch them directly from her outstretched hand. "Look, calm down, Little Miss Work-Is-My-Life, it'll be fine."

"No, it won't," said Hermione, almost calmly, though Kestrel suspected this new serenity was simply a side-effect of the caffeine not having yet entered her bloodstream; the calm before the storm, as it were. "If I don't compile this report properly, then that means that my proposal for Elfish Warfare can't go through for consideration, which means it won't ever be passed, which means they'll _still_ be treated like nothing more than slaves, which means -"

"Woah, woah, calm down," said Kestrel, holding up her hands and cutting neatly through Hermione's obviously-prepared rant. "You've still got two hours, hun, you'll be fine. You know you're stressing out over nothing. And anyway, I know something that'll cheer you up."

"Oh really?" said Hermione sceptically, already riffling through the paperwork littering her desk and scribbling at a three-foot length of parchment that Kess assumed was her 'nowhere-near-ready' proposal. "What's that then?"

"I'll come and find you for lunch when you've finished that," said Kess sweetly. "And I'll show you."

**~ OoOoO ~ **

True to her word, scarcely ten minutes after Hermione had set down her quill for the last time and rolled her parchment (by now four and a half feet long) up ready to submit it, Kess could be seen hovering beside her office, waiting for Hermione to return from submission.

"Ready?" she asked, leaning casually against the doorframe of Hermione's office.

"Yeah," said Hermione, and then she caught herself, staring closely at Kestrel, whose eyelids seemed to shimmer with a previously-unseen pearlescent gloss and whose cheekbones seemed suddenly pinker and more defined. "Did you – have you put on more make-up?"

Kestrel fluffed her hair in response and pursed her lips slightly, so that Hermione could see the slick of red painted across them. "Just a bit," she replied happily, and Hermione frowned bemusedly.

"_Why_?" she asked, and Kess just grinned irritatingly.

"You'll see," she trilled happily. "Come on."

Without a word and with her head spinning slightly, Hermione followed Kestrel through the maze of offices and desks that seemed to litter the floor, not speaking even when they stood in the lift for three floors, waiting patiently even as Kestrel struggled to stop her smile from slipping out. It was killing Hermione not to ask what was going on, but two years of friendship meant that she knew that voicing her impatience would only amuse Kess further, ensuring her silence, and so she waited, following Kess out of the lift obediently.

"Why are we in the canteen?" she asked wondrously, and Kestrel smiled triumphantly.

"Well, it's _lunchtime_, isn't it?" she said. "Come on, let's get some food and find a seat."

Five minutes later, Hermione's tray filled with a bowl of leek and potato soup, a bread roll and a banana and Kestrel's tray carrying only a small bowl of salad and an apple, they stood together, looking for a seat. Kestrel craned her head carefully around the crowded room, searching for a suitable table, and suddenly hissed to Hermione, "That one! _Quick_!" before rushing over to it, leaving Hermione slightly dazed.

When she had recovered her senses sufficiently she trotted over to the table, where Kestrel had seated herself and was currently trying to pout and eat a forkful of lettuce at the same time, which was even harder to do than it was hilarious to watch.

"What the hell is going on?" asked Hermione, setting her tray down beside her. "Is all that what's meant to cheer me up –watching you act like an idiot?"

"Shut up, stupid, and sit down," said Kestrel. When Hermione did so she paused in her pouting/lettuce actions, and turned to her friend. "Right, when I tell you to, look as subtly and as carefully as you can at the next table and tell me what you see."

Carefully, Hermione turned her head slightly so that the view of the table beside them was in plain sight. Sat there was a very large and apparently ravenous wizard Hermione knew to work in the Magical Artefacts department, who was currently devouring a plate of fried chicken and rice rather messily. Grimacing slightly, Hermione turned back to Kess.

"_That's_ your idea of 'cheering up'?" she asked incredulously. "Watching some guy eating chicken?"

"What?" mouthed Kestrel, surprised. "No, you donut – the _other_ table!"

Hermione looked in the direction Kestrel indicated and finally saw what she assumed has got Kess in such a flap.

Sitting alone at the table and carefully chewing a large sandwich was a young wizard in his mid-twenties, whose chiselled good looks put Hermione in mind of a highly-skilled artist's work. He was at the next table but Hermione could see the earthy blue-green of his eyes, flecked with hazel; the straight edge of his jaw and the way the honey-milk of his skin was pulled taut and then loosened with each mouthful of food; the closely-cropped dark brown-blonde, almost bronze, of his hair. Hermione didn't look to check but she could tell by the precisely tuned buzz of conversation and the way that the air fizzed that she and Kess were not the only ones staring at him.

"Wow," she said, turning back to Kestrel. "Who's he?"

"_He_," said Kestrel, a dreamy expression on her face, "is Sebastian Marianelli. He just joined the Auror department. Isn't he yummy?"

"I suppose," said Hermione serenely, deliberately not allowing herself a second look at him.

"You _suppose_?" cried Kestrel; then she checked herself, realising how loudly she just spoke, and continued in an incredulous stage-whisper whilst wearing the biggest and fakest smile Hermione had ever seen. "Hermione, he's _gorgeous_, what's wrong with you? I know you're officially Loved Up but surely that doesn't mean your eyes stop working?"

"I wouldn't worry about _my_ eyes if I were you," replied Hermione, "not when _yours_ are out on stalks staring at him. You do know stalking's illegal, don't you?"

"Oh, ha ha, very funny," said Kestrel waspishly, before remembering that she was trying to impress Sebastian and erupting in a very loud and extremely fake laugh as though she were having the time of her life.

"Kess, you look like a total lunatic, stop it," said Hermione, her voice bubbling with laughter. "He's just a man – why do you have to put on such an act?"

"Just a man?" replies Kestrel. "There's no such thing as 'just a man', and if there was then Sebastian Marianelli certainly wouldn't be 'just a man'. And anyway, if he _is_ 'just a man' then why don't _you_ go talk to him?"

"Fine," said Hermione. "I will."

And with those words she stood up, ignoring the incredulous expression on Kestrel's face. She walked slowly across the canteen and over to the little table where Sebastian sat alone, painfully aware of the way the eyes of every single female in the canteen were drawn to her, blocking out Kestrel hissing, "Tell him I said hi!" feverishly at her retreating back, and finally she stopped at his table, where he sat looking at his plate still, not having noticed her appearance.

"Hi," she started, feeling foolish and wishing very hard that she'd thought of some clever opening line before coming over. "I'm Hermione Granger."

_This isn't hard at all_, she thought. _Kestrel is just being an idiot. I knew he was just a stupid guy._ And then he looked up, and all the words she had been carefully collecting scatter as she saw his eyes, the curve of his half-smile, and when he returned the greeting she had to force herself to focus on what he was saying rather than the shape his mouth made as it formed the words.

"Sebastian Marianelli," he said, offering a hand to her, which she shook carefully, wondering if he could feel her skin tingling beneath his fingers. His hand was dry but surprisingly soft, given the job she was told he did, and his skin was a lightly tanned caramel colour.

"Hi," she said again, releasing his hand and digging her fingernails into the palm of her other hand, hoping that splitting her skin with delicate half-crescents would distract her enough that she wouldn't make a fool of herself.

"Hi," Sebastian repeated, amusedly. "Why don't you sit down?"

"Sure, sounds great," gabbled Hermione, and she sat down before she had time to think about it. "I'm sorry…erm…I heard you've just started, and I thought I'd introduce myself."

"Yeah," said Sebastian, "Just joined the Auror Department – it's my first day."

"You're American?" she asked, recognising his accent and shaking away the fug of distraction. "I'd have thought you'd be Italian with a name like Marianelli."

"Nope, I think my great-grandfather was Italian, but I'm from New Castle, Delaware originally. I moved over here with my mom when I was eighteen. I'm twenty-seven now. How about you, which department are you from?"

"The Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," said Hermione, cringing slightly as she realised how dull this sounded in comparison. "It's not as boring as it sounds."

Sebastian laughed gently. "I'm sure it's not."

"How are you finding things so far, anyway?" Hermione asked.

"It's different. I used to be a Healer, but I wanted a change, y'know, try and stop the injuries before they happen rather than clean up the mess all the time. But everyone seems nice so far, just a bit…I don't know…distant."

Hermione looked around the room at last. Most of the females were wearing oddly strangled expressions, torn between their utter hatred of Hermione right now and their desire to appear charming and graceful and pretty to Sebastian. The few males she could see seem to be huddled around a couple of tables, deep in conversation.

"I suppose it's just that they don't know you yet, that's all," she said brightly. "Not everyone's like that, anyway."

"Let's hope so," grinned Sebastian, taking a large bite of his sandwich. "Hey, maybe you can help me. I've been told I'll be working under Harry Potter – it's not _the_ Potter is it? As in The Boy Who Lived? I've not met him yet."

Hermione smiled and nodded. "Yeah, it's the Harry Potter. And don't worry, he's got this reputation that makes him sound like he'll be really fierce but he's lovely really. He's really dedicated to the job and he's a hard worker but he's brave and he's fair."

"You sound like you know him pretty well," said Sebastian carefully, looking sidelong at Hermione.

"He's one of my best friends from school," she replied evenly. "He's saved my life on several occasions."

"I've just realised why you seem so familiar," said Sebastian, clicking his fingers suddenly. "You were in the papers a few years ago, weren't you, you helped him defeat You-Know-Who, you and another boy -"

"Ron Weasley," supplied Hermione quickly, horribly conscious all of a sudden of how long it had taken her to mention Ron.

"Yeah –do you still see him much?"

"He's an Auror too; you'll be working with him as well as Harry," said Hermione. She opened her mouth to finish her sentence but before the words, "And he's my boyfriend" could leave her mouth she looked up to see that Kess was standing beside them, grinning inanely at her.

"It didn't look like you were coming back so I thought I'd join you instead," she gabbled, looking at Hermione but really directing her words towards Sebastian who simply smiled amusedly.

"Hi, I'm Kestrel Jones," she said, sitting down next to him, and Hermione bit her lip to prevent herself from laughing out loud when she saw what Sebastian couldn't; Kess surreptitiously smelling his hair as he reached down to pick up her strategically-dropped napkin.

**~ OoOoO ~**

Nausea isn't just a feeling. It has a taste and a colour and a smell, and it isn't just confined to your head and your stomach. It wraps itself around your heart, so that every beat sickens it; it creeps right down to your knees so that every step brings you closer to feeling as though you are composed entirely of jelly; it lays upon your tongue, bitter and pointed, so that even when you aren't speaking you can taste and feel its presence.

Neville Longbottom knew this more surely now than he ever had in his life.

"Welcome back, everyone; I hope you all had a lovely Christmas," smiled Professor Sprout genially, addressing the assembled fourth-year students in Greenhouse Three. "Now, today we will be studying the bloodflower – a dangerous plant, so make sure you've all got your dragonhide gloves on and your goggles – but first I'd like to introduce someone who some of you may recognise."

With her hand she gestured behind her, and it took several long moments before the simple motion of her callused hand waving at him penetrated the fog of terror that blocks all logical thought and action from Neville. He stood, achingly slow, the lump in his throat so large he was sure everyone could see it. He couldn't see the students' individual faces. They blurred into one, an enormous faceless entity, and all of them focussed on him.

"Some of you may remember Neville Longbottom from when he was a student here. He's going to be taking over as Herbology professor in September when I retire, and so for the remainder of this year he will be assisting me. He will be present in all of your lessons, and he is here to help you. However, just because he is not a professor officially yet _does not_ mean that you don't have to treat him like one. He is just as able to hand out detentions as I am – remember that. Is that clear?"

A collective mumbling of assertion rippled through the greenhouse and Professor Sprout smiled, satisfied.

"Excellent. Now, the bloodflower. This is an extremely dangerous plant if handled incorrectly, so gloves _on_ please. The bloodflower originates in Papua New Guinea, and our earliest records indicate that the first bloodflower was brought to England in the late 1340s by the wizard explorer Cecil Barnsley, who hoped it could be used in a potential potion to cure the outbreak of the Black Death, which was sweeping throughout the country. Unfortunately it did nothing more than cause the buboes of the victims to burst unpleasantly, but further experimentation on the plant showed it to be beneficial to sufferers of asthma when the leaves are correctly stewed and drunk at full moon. Now, note the strange curled black leaves…"

Neville half-listened to what few words managed to penetrate his stupor as he struggled to recall the frantic notes he made last night on the properties of the bloodflower. But his textbooks were locked away in his trunk, far away in what was now his home for most of the year, and so he could only rely on what information he could glean from Professor Sprout's demonstrations. Becoming a teaching assistant was every bit as terrifying as he had imagined it to be, and as the students stared curiously at him he wondered if he made the right decision. He wondered if there was still time to tell Professor Sprout that he had made a dreadful mistake; if Harry and Ron would mind too much coming to collect him again so soon after leaving him to Apparate home.

"Neville?" With a jolt Neville realised Professor Sprout was talking to him, and he jumped. "Neville, would you mind helping me with this demonstration?"

"N-no problem," he said, and standing carefully he limped over to her, painfully aware of the fact his injured leg was drawing the attention of the students, and refusing to let them see that he knew this. "What do you want me to do?"

"I'd like you to show the students how to clip the leaves of the bloodflower, please, Neville."

With a cold feeling of mild panic, Neville nodded slowly and slipped on his dragonhide gloves, newly bought for the job. Below him the bloodflower lay, vibrantly yellow and scarlet, its oddly curved black leaves quivering slightly in the breeze and the sleek redness of its large petals turned up to him, almost offering itself to him. He lifted his clippers and the petals shrank back, revealing a set of vicious spikes which looked like long purple fangs.

"These are exactly why you need to wear gloves when you're dealing with a bloodflower," he said to no one in particular; he found it easier when he is pretending he was talking to himself. "If you're stung by one of those spikes the bloodflower releases a very potent poison into your bloodstream; without an antidote you'll die within about seven minutes from massive cardiac arrest. A lot of sudden heart attacks can be attributed to the victim's handling of a bloodflower." His voice grew stronger and he even trusted himself to look up at the watching students as he realised that this knowledge was there, he had not forgotten, and it suddenly became easy, ridiculously so. "What you need to do is tickle the edge of the petals very gently – see how it's protecting its leaves as I get closer, by moving down? – with a twig or a pencil, _never_ your finger in case you brush the spikes, and watch it relax – can you see? And then once it's relaxed you snip away the leaves, one at a time, like that, making sure you keep stroking the petals. There we go."

He deposited the leaves into a large wooden bowl provided by Professor Sprout, who beamed at him.

"Now," he said, finishing. "Any questions?"

A hand was raised immediately. It belonged to a tall rakish looking boy with messy black hair and chronic acne. "Is it true you've got a limp 'cause you used to be an Auror?"

"Yes," said Neville truthfully. He had been preparing for these sorts of questions and had originally planned to give evasive answers, but now he wondered what purpose that would serve. Why feed these students more lies? It completely undermined everything he had spent the last six or seven years of his life fighting against. More hands shot up, and soon a flurry of questions were being fired at Neville faster than he could answer them, so that all he could do was nod or shake his head.

"Do you still know Harry Potter?"

"I was there at the Battle of Hogwarts, that was _cool -_"

"Is it true you were tortured?"

"What's it like being an Auror?"

"Is it scary?"

"Are there still Death Eaters?"

"Is You-Know-Who _really_ dead?"

"Okay, okay, enough questions!" cried Professor Sprout, waving her hands in the air for silence. "Now, you've got your instructions from Professor Longbottom, and you have an hour to collect all of your leaves, starting…._now_."

Neville nodded assertively, but seconds later he had to leave the greenhouse for what he told Professor Sprout was some 'fresh air' but what was really so that he could hide the smile that cracked his face in two at the thought that he would now be known as "Professor Longbottom".

**~ OoOoO ~**

"'Nother Firewhisky?"

Ron's speech was slurred and he opened his eyes wide so that he could see Harry properly, slumped slightly over the bar of the Three Broomsticks and gripping his Butterbeer tightly in one hand. Harry was in hardly better condition than Ron and wisely he shook his head no.

"S'good about Neville iznit?" Ron continued, and Harry nodded this time.

"Yep, yep. S'blurry good. He won't get blown up now!"

"Kaboom!" cried Ron. Inexplicably, he found this hilariously funny, and the next few minutes were spent laughing hysterically with Harry spluttering and hiccoughing with laughter beside him.

"What bout us though?" said Harry, wiping his eyes and sobering very slightly, though as it was now past midnight and the two of them had been here since around seven-thirty this did not put him at much of an advantage. "We'll get blown up now."

"No no no," said Ron, shaking his head and then getting dizzy and having to stop and blink for a few moments. "No, we're not gonna get blown up cos we've got Herminey and Gingey to not be blown up for."

Harry smiled and swigged at his Butterbeer. "Ginny…" he said and Ron poked him and laughs.

"You love her, you love her," he crowed and then he started to shout happily, waving his arms around. "Harry loves Gingeeeey, Harry loves Gingeeeeeey, he wants to give her kisses!"

"Ssssh, you're drunk," said Harry, flapping his hand at Ron so that he calmed down.

"You love her though don't you?" said Ron, concern contorting his features. "You have to love Gingey or she'll cry and then I have to make you cry and I don' want to do that cos you're Harry. So you have to lover." By now Ron was swaying on his seat slightly, rocking back and forth as if propelled by the weight of his words.

"S'okay, I love her," said Harry, and then he was grinning stupidly and covering his face with his hands to hide it, because if he couldn't see Ron then Ron couldn't see him and he was hiding away and Ron didn't know…

"You know what you's should do," said Ron, as seriously as he could, and he jabbed a long pale finger at Harry to emphasise his point. "You move in together, s'brilliant, you can have cuddles when you want! Every day!"

"Mmmm," said Harry, closing his eyes and hugging his Butterbeer to his chest.

"You's move in and have cuddles and s'lovely," continued Ron happily, before a sudden thought seized him and he glared at Harry as fiercely as he could. "But no... _squishy_, she's my sister, you can' do no squishy!" He said the word _squishy_ as if it were the rudest, more scandalising word he could think of, lowering his voice to a fevered whisper.

"But you and Hermione do squishy all the time! S'not fair!" Harry protested, but Ron had disappeared. "Ron? Where yugone?"

He looked down beside him and saw a ginger head at his feet.

"Oops," said Ron from the floor. "Tumbled over."

**~ OoOoO ~**


	13. Some Interesting Proposals

_**~ Chapter Thirteen – Some Interesting Proposals ~**_

_**Sunday 23rd**_ _**March 2001**_

_**Easter Sunday**_

_**St Mungo's Hospital – 2.37 p.m**_

Easter, for some reason, was always a busy time of year for St Mungo's. Most of the holidays were – there were always the poor fools who wound up on the wrong end of a firework at Halloween and on Bonfire Night, the magic in the rockets only exacerbating what would in any Muggle case have been an already extremely painful injury. Christmas, despite all the forced jollity and festivity, was often the worst day of the year, with the tinsel-strewn wards and corridors filled to brimming with the casualties of Christmas dinner fights and the inevitable duel or two. Easter, however, had always been somewhat surprising, because how could a festival that involved bunnies and chicks and brightly coloured eggs ever turn sour? Well, rest assured that it could, and quite often did.

It was only 2pm and already Neville, striding purposefully through the neat lines of beds and looking respectfully away from their occupants, had spied a man with a rabbit's head replacing his own, a woman with a nasty-looking stripe of burnt flesh caressing her cheek, and a boy of perhaps three years younger than Neville whose skin was rippled with dozens of thick purple pustules.

When he finally reached the correct ward he pushed the door open unhesitatingly. He had been coming here for so long now that he had almost developed a kind of second sight, allowing him to pick his way carefully through the ward with such ease that he barely needed to look where he was going to find his way to them. But today was different. It wasn't until he sat down in the chair that he realised the change. It looked like the same old chair he always sat in when he came, but it felt different; the grooves were worn away in the wrong shape; the grain was running in the wrong direction entirely and the whorls and knots of the wood had moved, too; it wasn't right at all. He looked up at last and found himself staring straight into the face of the occupant of what should have been his mother's bed, but which in fact currently housed a placid-looking young woman who would have been beautiful were it not for the pig's snout that marred her face.

The look of shock on Neville's face must have translated itself to the woman, because as soon as she saw him all serenity was wiped from her expression and she began to shriek wildly, pointing at him and crying out and desperately trying to attract the attention of the nearest Healer, which was convenient, because Neville immediately began to do the same thing once he realised she was not his mother.

"What's going on here?" The Healer who bustled over was a short, harassed-looking man with wispy tufts of greyish hair that sprouted erratically from his round and extremely shiny head. "It's okay, Rachel, calm down –_calm down_, everything is okay, you're safe – what are _you_ doing here?"

He directed the last part, rather scathingly, to Neville who merely stared at him. He knew he should say something equally cutting back, like _Oh, breathing in and out, growing my hair, that sort of thing_ or _Seeing how long I can sit here before I'm thrown out _or _Never mind me, what are _you _doing here? _but he had never been very good at snappy comebacks and so all of the clever and sarcastic phrases in his mind somehow expelled themselves from his lips in the form of a string of broken syllables as his stutter, a relic from his early childhood, returned inexplicably.

"I'm – I mean – my parents – well, they -"

"If you're not visiting Madam Walsh then you can't be here," continued the Healer, cutting Neville off with a disinterested wave of his gnarled hand, already bored, and he busied himself with calming the woman, whose shrieks had subsided to a hiccoughing whimper.

Neville stopped the retort that sprang up in his mind, anger prickling at his insides – anger at this man for intimidating him, anger at himself for allowing the Healer to unsettle him when he had faced every terrible kind of Dark wizard he could think of and come out on top. He thought of all the polite things he should say to this man, and he thought of all the rude, _true,_ things that he _should_ say but wouldn't, finally settling on simply falling completely, eerily, silent and staring levelly at the man.

He didn't know it but the effect was very unsettling. When the Healer lifted his eyes to Neville once more he wasn't to know that Neville had no intention of even being impolite to him, let alone harming him, but at this moment all that he could see was the straight rough edge of Neville's jaw, the muscle that beat in his throat, the intensity in his eyes, and suddenly he regretted his earlier briskness. He could feel a bead of sweat sliding languidly down his left temple, and he tried to return Neville's patient stare, but it had been several minutes now and still Neville had not said a word.

"Erm…" said the Healer at last, finding a voice, though he could hardly call it his own; this one trembled and faltered. "Who are you here for?"

Neville's eyes did not leave the Healer's face; specifically the man's upper lip, where a nervous tic was currently causing it to twitch spasmodically, but even then his expression did not change. "Frank and Alice Longbottom," he said pleasantly, a cheerful smile wrapping itself across his features, though his eyes still didn't move.

"They've been moved," said the Healer quickly, eager for this strange young man to leave him alone. "Ward Six now, down the hall."

Neville smiled wider, satisfied. "Thank you," he said slowly, and he stared at the man a fraction longer, seeing the unease in the Healer's eyes and not caring one bit. "You might want to work on your bedside manner," he added, still in that pleasant tone of voice, and when the Healer only nodded vaguely in response he turned and swept from the little ward, in search once more for his parents.

**~ OoOoO ~**

_**The Leaky Cauldron – 4.24 p.m**_

Two hours later found Neville sitting at the bar of the Leaky Cauldron, one hand wrapped firmly around an almost-empty bottle of Butterbeer. The crumpled tissue in his hand was damp with tears and the sweat from his agitated palms, and he pocketed it carefully with his left hand, his right upending the bottle at his mouth so that he could drink the dregs of the Butterbeer.

"Another Butterbeer?" asked Tom, pausing in his bar-wiping and when Neville nodded he had already produced another one. "Galleon, please," he added, and Neville stuffed his hand in his pocket, searching for coins amidst the fluff and tissues that seemed to collect there. Finally locating a Galleon he dropped it onto the counter and reached for his seventh Butterbeer.

"Here, you dropped this," came a voice behind him, and Neville turned to see a pretty young woman of at least his age. The white apron she wore at her waist was somehow immaculate, though the drink-spattered tray she held indicated that she must work here. There was something vaguely familiar about the shy curve of her smile, and for a second Neville could have sworn that he could see the flash of recognition in her eyes, but the moment passed and it was gone. She was holding out her hand to him, her fingers closed, and when she turned her slim wrist to drop it into his outstretched palm he knew before he took it that it was a bubble gum wrapper, a stolen treasure.

"Thanks," he said and he made to turn back to his Butterbeer, but the girl was staring curiously at him now, chewing her lower lip as though puzzled by something. Her short blonde hair fell to her chin, and when she flicked her fringe out of her eyes he could see that they were an uncertain shade of blue-grey-green that made him somehow sure that they shifted with her moods and he thought that he'd love to know which colour they flashed when she laughed.

"Neville Longbottom," she said after long moments, almost dreamy with recognition. "It is you, isn't it?"

Neville, nonplussed, could only nod, his eyebrows lowering with his own confusion now. "Yeah," he said, "But how -"

"Hannah," she said quickly. "Hannah Abbott? From school?"

"Wow," said Neville. Then, realising this sounded rude, he added quickly, "Sorry -I didn't recognise you without the pigtails – I mean -"

"It's okay," says Hannah, and she laughs a little. _Olive_, thinks Neville, and he smiles. "No one really recognises me at first now that I've had it all cut off."

"You look lovely – I mean, _it_ looks lovely, nice haircut…" said Neville, too quickly, thinking _shut up shut up shut up_. "What are you doing here?" he asked, more for a subject change than anything else.

"Can't you guess?" asked Hannah, pointing at her apron and the tray in turn. "I work here – well, for at least the next three minutes of my shift. How about you? I heard you were off fighting Dark wizards – what are you doing sitting in a pub?"

"Three minutes, did you say?" asked Neville. Hannah nodded. He said the next words so quickly his stammer didn't have a chance to resurface. "D'you want to get a coffee or something when you're done? You don't have to, I just thought – I mean -"

"I'd love to," said Hannah, and then she smiled so widely that he could name every single shade of her eyes.

**~ OoOoO ~**

_**A Muggle coffee shop – 5.15 p.m**_

"I can't believe you work at the school now," said Hannah for the fifth time so far, sipping carefully at her cappuccino.

"Is that weird?" asked Neville. Hannah shook her head.

"No, it's just…unexpected," she said, and then she shook her head once more. "No, no, that's not the right word, it's not unexpected -"

"You mean you were expecting it?" Neville asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"No," said Hannah, and she was suddenly completely serious. "I always kind of thought you'd make a good teacher."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Hannah smiled once more. "You were always good at Herbology, plus you understand what it's like never knowing the answer when everyone else seems to get it straight away. Besides," she added, leaning carefully across Neville to get a napkin. "You've got a kind face."

Neville could only smile at her for long moments, until it felt almost rude to stop, until he felt sure that his jaw was frozen this way, until he saw her mouth curving the same way.

"You see what I mean?" said Hannah eventually, his smile still warm on her skin. "And at the very least you've got the Moody Factor now, that's always appealing."

"You mean kids actually _like_ being turned into ferrets?"

"No, you donut, I was talking about your limp." She caught the slight shift of Neville's expression and rushed to apologise. "I'm sorry – I shouldn't have mentioned – I just noticed, that's all, I didn't mean -"

"It's okay," said Neville quietly. He looked down reflexively at his damaged leg. "My limp is the reason I decided to go back to Hogwarts anyway. I'd only been an Auror for eighteen months, two years, and already I'd been injured for life. If I'd stayed who knows how I could have ended up?" It was only when he finished talking that he realised she had placed a hand lightly on his lower arm, as gently as breath, but the moment he looked down and saw it she seemed to stiffen, and she slowly withdrew it once more, so that only the residual warmth on his arm and the fizzing beneath his skin betrayed her earlier presence. "Anyway, how'd you end up at the Cauldron?"

Hannah flapped the hand that had touched Neville's arm nonchalantly. "I kind of fell into it. You know, fresh out of school, no idea what to do with my life, and there was a vacancy, but now I really love it. I'll own it one day, I'm determined. And then I'll ban everyone from it and only let in the people I like so it's my own private pub."

"Does that include me?" Neville asked hopefully, half-teasing.

"But of course," said Hannah in mock-outrage that he might have thought anything else. "But you have to do what I tell you or I won't let you in."

Neville hitched another smile at her without thinking. "What does that involve?"

Hannah shrugged. "Eternal servitude, a couple of silly hats. Mostly stuff that amuses me. Anyway, another coffee? I'm paying this time."

"I'll have a hot chocolate this time and no, you're not paying – here," said Neville, fishing for coins in his pockets once more. His closed fist belched its contents out onto the smooth red plastic of the table and there, resting lighting atop the jumbled pieces of gold and silver, lay the crumpled wrapper Hannah handed to him an hour before. He pushed it to one side and handed Hannah a few coins, but she made no move to get up yet.

"You've still got that wrapper? Here, I'll throw it away when I go up for the drinks," she said, reaching for it, but Neville curled his fingers protectively around it.

"No," he said flatly. "That's okay. I need it."

Hannah raised an eyebrow but Neville could read her expression clearly; quizzical, not judgemental, and so plain and open that he couldn't help the words he had always quelled from bubbling up and spilling over the dam of his lips, so that he found he was telling her everything, things he had never told anyone else, things he had rarely admitted to himself and then only in the solitary darkness of his room, things that later on he wouldn't believe he dared tell her.

He told her about his mother and her gifts to him; of how, on good days, he could almost believe she recognised him; of the way she got so distressed today, a bad day, and didn't recognise Neville even as someone she liked but as someone she was afraid of, so that Neville was asked to leave early and had to hide away in the Cauldron until he could calm himself down.

He told her about his father; how when he was younger he always wanted to be able to walk as straight as Frank Longbottom; how he was never greeted by his father now with anything other than complete indifference, his presence neither exciting nor displeasing him.

He didn't look at her as he spoke but stared carefully at a crumb of fruitcake left unswept on their table, focussing all of his energies on it with such force that he could have sworn he could feel the air around it vibrating with the sheer effort of his will. He spoke until words failed him and he fell silent, and when he lifted his eyes to meet her face he was surprised to find her still sitting there.

"I'm sorry," he said, blushing crimson. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable – I'll shut up now."

"It's okay," said Hannah gently, smiling through the tears that have crystallised on her cheeks. "You didn't."

**~ OoOoO ~**

_**Sunday 23rd**_ _**March 2001**_

_**Easter Sunday**_

_**Ron & Hermione's apartment – 6pm**_

"Honestly, Ron, if Sebastian hadn't found that file, I don't know what I'd have done," said Hermione, spearing a roast potato with her fork and placing it carefully into her mouth. "I mean, I certainly wouldn't have been able to finish my report – I don't know _where_ he pulled it out from but it was just in time."

"He probably hid it in the first place," muttered Ron darkly, but not quite loud enough for Hermione to hear, so that when she said, "Pardon?" he was able to pretend he was asking her to pass the gravy boat.

Privately he was quite surprised she had thus far not noticed his mood, not even when he began stabbing his parsnips with a new ferocity, pretending they were Sebastian's head. It wasn't that Ron had any particularly _violent_ tendencies, of course. It was just that he'd been playing a little game with Hermione, and so far she was losing. This wasn't entirely fair, since she didn't know they're playing.

The game was very simple. Basically, every single time Hermione mentioned Sebastian Marianelli, Ron got to stab something on his plate. He was playing fairly though, of course. At least, as fairly as possible. She had to mention his name, so that Ron was only allowed to massacre his roast beef if she specifically said the word "Sebastian", not if she just vaguely referred to the fact he was allowed to be alive. Still, even with these sanctions in place Ron had already almost demolished all of his potatoes and had started on his vegetables now.

It wasn't that Ron was a particularly jealous person, either. It was simply that over the last month or two, Hermione seemed to have developed a rather serious medical condition known as _mentionitis_, which meant that she was psychologically compelled to bring Sebastian into any conversation the two of them happened to be having. Conversations of note included the subject of Harry and Ginny's current search for a flat of their own ("Sebastian said he used Cullen & Co's to find his place, he said they're _amazing_"), Ron's recent 21st birthday celebrations ("Sebastian picked the cake up for me, I literally was rushed off my feet at work and I nearly forgot altogether!" and even Hermione's stomach upset following last week's visit to an Indian restaurant wasn't without friendly advice from Saint Sebastian regarding which potion was best to brew.

And the worst part was Hermione clearly hadn't noticed she was doing it – or, at least, Ron _hoped_ she hadn't noticed. Or was he being stupid? Was he just being really thick when he should have noticed weeks ago? Had she been dropping hints for ages and he had been too slow to pick up on them? But if so then why didn't she just tell him, why drag it out? Unless she –

"Ron? Are you all right?" Hermione's voice punctured his pessimism and he forced himself to smile. And brought out his Secret Weapon. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said. "I think I've caught a bug from Carol at work, though. Carol Jones, you know, from my department."

_Aah_, thought Hermione. _Carol again_. Ron had been mentioning Carol-From-Work for a few weeks now. Every so often he brought her up, usually to tell Hermione how much she helped him at work that day, such as the time a few weeks ago when Ron had a cold (man-flu, if Hermione was honest, although he insisted he was dying) and Carol-From-Work had whipped up a special potion for him on the spot that had cured him completely. Or the time he accidentally set fire to a stack of reports he needed to hand in and Carol-From-Work had lovingly set about recreating them from scratch.

"Jones, did you say?" Hermione asked casually. "Carol Jones?"

"Yeah," said Ron happily, a faint note of triumph tingeing his voice. "Carol Jones."

"Is this the same Carol who killed that spider for you that was hiding in your desk drawer?"

"Yeah, the blonde one."

"Hmm," said Hermione. "Has she recently got a divorce?"

Ron frowned. "No. Why?"

"No reason," said Hermione pleasantly. "It's just that last week her surname was Smith and she was a redhead. I just thought maybe she'd got divorced so was using her maiden name and she'd dyed her hair, seeing as now she's a blonde called Jones." She leant back in her chair, taking a triumphant sip of her drink and looking levelly at Ron, who seemed to have paled a little.

"That must have been a different Carol you're thinking of," said Ron, far too quickly, his cool evaporating as quickly as his story. "I'm talking about Carol who does the filing for the Auror Department -"

"Okay," said Hermione once more, putting an end to the conversation. "My mistake. Anyway, how're Harry and Ginny getting on with finding a place, or don't you know?"

She changed the subject smoothly, smiling inwardly at Ron's noticeable relief. Ordinarily she would have pressed him on this, but at the moment it was far too amusing watching him making up imaginary people and then forgetting seemingly-important details about them. So far Carol-From-Work had had four different surnames, six hair colour switches and two departmental changes, with the only consistency being that 'her' first name was Carol.

"I don't know," said Ron carefully, unsure where Hermione was going to take this conversation, now that she had seen through his fake mentionitis. _So much for making her jealous_, he thought miserably. "Harry wanted us to meet them later tonight to talk about it though."

"Okay, let's wash up and go then," said Hermione cheerfully, and they finished the last of their meal in silence, each lost in their own, very different, thoughts.

**~ OoOoO ~**

**_Saturday July 28th_ _2001_**

_**Harry and Ginny's flat – 7.30 p.m.**_

"Well, personally I can't see what the problem is," Ginny said, looking levelly at Harry. Her long hair was pulled carefully back from her face this evening, so that he could see her eyes clearly. Currently they were narrowed slightly in bemusement, her mouth curling at the corners slightly as she waited for his response.

Harry shrugged. "I kind of see his point, though. It can't be nice."

Ginny simply looked at him, an eyebrow raised. "There's an attractive man who happens to be friends with Hermione, who's never actually tried anything with her – trust me," she added, seeing Harry's questioning look. "She's a terrible liar; I asked her. Anyway, there's nothing funny going on, it's just Ron being his normal petty idiot self."

"You sure?"

"You're talking to his _sister_. What do you think?" Ginny smiled triumphantly at Harry. "Come on, open your mouth, midget bum."

"_What_?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Not _you_, idiot," she said, and she lifted the spoon of mashed potato to illustrate her point. Settling herself more comfortably in her chair she turned from Harry and back towards the toddler who clapped his chubby starfish hands and made the gurgled screams of delight that only a small child whose carer was pretending to be aeroplane could make. "Come on, Teddy, open wide for the plane. _Nnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeowww!"_

A bubble of laughter escaped Harry; he couldn't help himself. She'd never even been on a plane and the closest she had ever come to one had been the times she'd stared up at the kite strings of smoke left stitched across the sky as one drifted by overhead; the only reason she knew about this Muggle practice of persuading babies to eat was because she observed a Muggle mother in a café doing it just last week, when the two of them decided to visit central London, and insisted she try it herself. So far, it had been rather successful.

"You do know you have to give him back to Andromeda eventually, don't you, Gin?"

Ginny simply scoffed "She'll have to find me first. _Nnnnneeeeeeeeeeooowwwwww_, look Teddy, here comes the aeroplane – you see, Harry, I _told_ you this would work. Look – _nnnnnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeowwww!_"

"More, more!" cried Teddy, clapping his hands.

"If you keep making those noises Andromeda won't need to look very hard for you, though, will she?" Harry smiled. "She'll just listen out for the person who sounds like a mental patient on his day out."

"Keep on and I'll empty this bowl over your head," Ginny threatened pleasantly.

"Not that it'd do much – most of the potato's on Teddy's face by the looks of it."

Ginny didn't reply; she made a face at him and returned, beaming, to Teddy. "You ignore him, Teddy, he's just jealous that _his_ potato face paint never looks this good."

Teddy took this opportunity to turn to face Harry, the mashed potato around his mouth from his not-always-successful attempts to feed himself. "It's yummy tatoes," he told Harry proudly.

Harry left her there, laughing softly to herself as Teddy clumsily took the spoon from her to prove to her that he was in fact a big boy now and could feed himself, thank you very much. At first he'd found it bizarre, being left to look after Teddy; for one thing, it was bizarre to have responsibility over someone's well-being that didn't require the preservation of their very life. Add to that the fact that until now he had rarely spent more than a few supervised minutes alone with any small child and he was panicking before Andromeda, smiling tiredly, had finished her sentence.

He hadn't, however, reckoned on Ginny, who not only genuinely adored Teddy (unless of course her daily threats, repeated with ever-growing seriousness not to mention regularity, to steal him and run away were merely an elaborate double bluff) but seemed also to be a natural mother. Andromeda had suggested Harry, as Teddy's godfather, look after him from time to time a little over a year ago; now it already appeared that Ginny was planning his eventual permanent relocation to their little flat. Harry was pretending to discourage her from the idea but privately he didn't mind at all; apart from anything else it was nice to have something of Lupin and Tonks around still, particularly one as chubby-faced and happy as Teddy. Sticky-fisted and small for his age, he had just celebrated his third birthday and already was displaying some of his parents' most prominent characteristics; the purple-flowered bruise on his left temple from where he ran bandy-legged into the kitchen doorway this morning was testament to his inherited clumsiness.

The notes of laughter following him out of the little kitchen, Harry settled himself behind his desk in the living room, since the flat was too small for a proper study, and reluctantly pulled towards him the large stack of paperwork he was forced to bring home with him this afternoon. He should have been grateful, really; there had been much more but Sebastian Marianelli, eager to help, had offered to file some of it himself ready for Monday morning. Sebastian had been a real help of late; he had worked overtime with Harry and Ron whenever the duty called for it; he accepted the tasks Harry assigned him happily and completed them quickly and efficiently; he was polite and friendly, and Harry could find very little fault with him. _But still_…

He leant back in his chair now, sucking the tip of his quill pensively. There was a definite _quality_ about Sebastian that suggested that all was not as it seemed, and Harry simply couldn't put his finger on it. He was almost _too_ eager to help; his ready smile seemed too easily slicked on at times, as if he kept it oiled and poised for the next time he required it, rather than it being the product of any kind of genuine feeling. It was almost as if he was hiding something. Harry hadn't, of course, confided anything of this to anyone else, and only sparingly to Ginny. He knew Ron would jump at the opportunity to criticise Sebastian – at the moment if there were none to jump at he simply created them himself out of the thin air of contempt – but he restrained himself; Ron may have been his best friend but he was still senior to him; it would have been foolish.

_Give it time,_ Harry thought. _He's not been here long – give him a chance_. He would wait until he had seen Sebastian in action, away from the safety and comfort of his own little desk and out fighting with the other Aurors, before he judged him properly. Harry knew better than anyone that a person's true colours were painted brightest when they were under extreme pressure. In the mean time he would try to think of some way to placate Ron. So far it hadn't been easy; the best Harry had come up with was to ensure that their desks were far apart from one another and that they were never placed on similar assignments. Ron's dislike for Sebastian was so acute that Harry could almost taste its bitter tang, and yet he could nearly understand its source, too. He tried to imagine how he would feel if it were Ginny instead but failed before he had properly begun as the image of her face made the corners of his mouth curl up. He couldn't even see her working at the Ministry, let alone anything else.

She had been working at the joke shop with George now since leaving school, and although it was meant only to be a temporary stop-gap whilst she decided what to do with herself, there was no denying the fact that she was happiest there, helping her brother out. She had come up with almost as many ideas for new tricks and sweets as the twins had originally, almost doubling the shop's turnover in the past eighteen months, and forced George to get up and come to work on the days when the sadness swallowed him and he couldn't get out of bed. If nothing else, the sheer determination she had shown in making sure her brother knew he was needed was enough to make Harry love her, though it wasn't like he actually needed any reason to.

The familiar plinking tune of the doorbell jolted Harry back to his senses and he pulled himself up from his chair, making his way carefully down the hallway to open the door, a smile folding his face in two as he recognised the visitor. Andromeda Tonks stood before him, her once-brown hair, now greying at the temples from the stresses of the past few years, pushed back off a sweaty red face, her eyes kind and creased at the corners.

"Gin, Andromeda's here," Harry called back over his shoulder, towards the little kitchen. "Time to stuff Teddy up your top, quick!"

Andromeda laughed. "She's still trying to steal him then?"

"Of course not." Ginny had left the kitchen now and stood behind Harry in the hallway, bristling with faux-indignation and jiggling Teddy on her hip. "Would I do a thing like that?" She bent down to place Teddy on the floor. Noticing his grandmother standing in the doorway he screamed with delight at the sight of her and ran towards her, arms outstretched.

"Nana, Nana!"

"No, but you'd certainly try," agreed Andromeda, reaching for her grandson, who promptly planted a loose-lipped kiss on her cheek. She lifted him up and hugged him close. "Hello, you little monster, I hope you've been a good boy."

Teddy beamed and nodded enthusiastically. "I eated all my tatoes, Nana."

"He's been perfect, as always," replied Ginny proudly, folding her arms across herself. "Come in and sit down, Andromeda, I'll get you a drink."

"Oh, no, it's fine, honestly – I've got to be going anyway."

"Are you sure?" Harry asked. Andromeda nodded her assertion.

"Okay, well, then let me just make sure you've got all of Teddy's things before you go then." Ginny disappeared back into the kitchen, reappearing just as quickly with a bag filled with the things Andromeda had brought her that morning for Teddy. "There," she said, pressing the bag into Andromeda's arms.

"Thanks," said Andromeda, rearranging herself so that she could comfortably carry Teddy and the bag. "Right, I'd best be off. Thanks so much for looking after him today. Come on, Teddy, say bye-bye now."

Teddy, struck by sudden obstinance, squealed once more and hid his face in his grandmother's shoulder, kicking out his legs and sending the bag on her shoulder careering towards the floor, where it belched out its contents.

"Don't want to go!" he cried. "Want to stay here!"

"Oh, Teddy, look what you've done!" Andromeda cried, looking apologetically at Ginny. "I'm so sorry, he's just like his mother, naughty boy."

"Don't be so silly," Ginny smiled from the floor, already scooping the bag's contents back and handing it back to Andromeda. She straightened and kissed his plump cheek noisily, pretending to bite his fingers as punishment. "Next time I'll just eat you up and then you'll be sorry, you bad boy," she told him as he giggled. She stopped, realising Andromeda was simply looking at her, an odd expression on her face. "Are you okay?"

Andromeda nodded. "I'm so glad Teddy has you, even though my Dora isn't here," she said, and then she smiled broadly at Ginny, the warmth of it stroking the girl's face. "Hurry up and have children of your own. You'll make a fantastic mummy."

She left the words hanging in the air, dangling tantalisingly in front of Ginny's face, and then she smiled her goodbyes and exited the flat, Teddy's beaming face poking over the top of her shoulder, so that when Ginny turned to face Harry her heart was fuller than she could ever remember it being.

**OoOoOo**

_**The Wizard's Stick, London**_

_**8.16 p.m. **_

"Where did you hear about this one?" Neville asked. He was sitting with Hannah in one of the corner booths at the dimly lit pub, trying not to notice the way her slim fingers were trailing daintily around the rim of her glass, trying not to wonder why he _had_ noticed it and what that might mean.

"Oh, Tom told me about it, of all people," replied Hannah. Her eyes seemed extra sparkly tonight and Neville wondered if she'd done something to make them like that or whether it was just because he was on his third Firewhisky and she was on her second. "I laughed when he told me – I mean, he _works_ in a pub and yet there he was telling me this one's so much better!"

It was their third date, as Neville had to return to Hogwarts between Easter and now, and Neville was enjoying it, only he wasn't quite sure if this actually _was_ a date. He knew it was just the two of them and he knew that she was very pretty and funny and nice and he knew that this was the third time the two of them had been out together, but he didn't know if this was a _date_-date or an _I-Only-Want-To-Be-Friends-Please-Don't-Touch-Me-Or-Look-At-Me-Like-That-_date, and he definitely didn't know how to find out.

For starters, did the fact she kept cutting her sentences in half, simply looking at him with a smile on her face that made him feel as though someone was stroking his insides, and then resuming speaking like nothing had happened mean that this was a proper date? And did it mean anything when she laughed loudly at unfunny jokes he told clumsily, even when he messed up the punch line so that the hag stole the warlock's line and the leprechaun was omitted entirely?

"Anyway, how's life at school? Ready to escape again yet?" Hannah asked, sensing a lull in the conversation, and Neville swigged from his bottle again, wondering whether she was genuinely interested or she is making polite conversation.

"It's not bad," Neville answered. "I'm getting the hang of it now but it's still weird being the one who gives out the detentions rather than the one who does them."

Hannah laughed softly, a tinkling laugh that made Neville want to tell her every joke he had ever heard, just so that he could hear it again. "I can't imagine you giving kids detentions," she told him honestly.

"Hey, I've given out a couple," he said, nearly indignant, but that only made her laugh more. "Well, all right, _one_, but Professor Sprout's always been there, so she's always been the one to give them out. And anyway, as of next year it's just me, so I'll probably have to give out loads."

"Are you scared?" Hannah asked, grinning wickedly.

"Nah," said Neville, brimming with false bravado. "If they try anything I'll just turn the lot of them into toads, see how they like that."

"You'll do great," Hannah told him, and then she was curling her fingers over his, stroking the back of his hand gently, so that he knew what it felt like to have the blood bubble beneath his fingertips, to hear his heartbeat crashing in his ears. "Stop worrying."

"I'm not worrying."

He didn't have any idea what it was he just said to her; he had to drag the words up from the deepest part of him and he could hear his voice repeating the lie as though from under water. He knew that he was now more confused than ever, because surely that meant this was a proper date? But what if it wasn't, what if she was simply trying to comfort him?

Hannah was simply looking at him, not believing a word he just told her, and she raised an eyebrow, so that he could see the bright blue-grey-green of her eyes more clearly and his heartbeat relocated back to his chest, though it still fought against the frail cage of his ribs for release.

"You're a terrible liar, Neville," she told him, lifting her drink to her lips so that he could watch the seam of her throat ripple as she swallowed. "But I forgive you, so it's okay. Another drink?"

"Please," Neville replied, and then he simply sat back in his seat and watched her as she slid out from the booth and walked confidently to the bar. Her hair, clearly freshly-washed, shone under the faint lights, so that it appeared almost burnished, and fell messily around her face, which looked slimmer with the absence of the pigtails he remembered so well. He tried not to notice the wishbone curve of her body as she leant casually over the bar, ordering their drinks, focussing instead on the beads of condensation that pooled around the bottom of his now-empty glass. He tried to ignore the way she squeezed his hand before she got up, the way she allowed her fingers to trail the length of his, and focused instead on the nails on his left hand, how bitten down they looked, so that when she sat down once more he was able to look at her face instead of anywhere else.

Neville cleared his throat and picked up his glass, swallowing it all in one steady smooth swig, feeling the burn of it sliding down inside him, and suddenly all the silent questions that had been prickling away inside him seemed to collect in his mouth, so that he had only seconds to order them in his mind. Facing Hannah, he opens his mouth to speak.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, go for it," Hannah replied, her eyes sparkling once more. Tonight they looked green, a beautiful light jade that he had learned was the shade of happiness, of serenity, a soft bright colour that he had seen regularly.

"Well, you know how we've been meeting up and going out lately?" Neville heard the words and wished he could be articulate but he didn't know how; all he knew was that the words in his mouth were the words he would choke on if they didn't get said, that if he didn't say this now he would break.

"Yeah," said Hannah, a hint of amusement ghosting her face, though she gave nothing away.

"Well, is because you want to be my friend or is it for another reason?" He said it wrong, he knew it, it was wrong. "I mean, it's okay, I don't mind either way – I mean -" Wrong, wrong, _wrong_. "I just – I – if you want to be my friend that's great but if you – erm – well, which one is it?"

Neville immediately wished he could unsay it. He had ruined it now, he was sure of it, he should have kept quiet, and he should have just waited for her to tell him of her own free will; he had definitely frightened her away now. Hannah didn't say anything for several moments, but appeared to digest his question, staring carefully at him. And then she did something he wasn't quite expecting.

Neville opened his mouth to apologise, but she had covered his mouth with hers, forcing the words back down his throat so that he swallowed them gratefully. They were hidden in their little booth, tucked away in the corner, so that no one saw when he lifted a nervous hand and ran it through her hair, so that no one heard the tiny moans that rolled into his mouth from hers, so that no one noticed the slow lingering kiss that made his toes curl under and his skin fizz.

Finally, Hannah sat back, her eyes bright, a half-smile making Neville's heart hitch.

"Well," she said, "does that answer your question?"

Neville tried to answer, but the only sound he was capable of making wasn't even remotely close to English, so he simply nodded.

"Good," Hannah replied and then she laughed, a hiccough of relief. "Thank god you finally said something. I've wanted to do that for ages."

Neville nearly choked on his surprise. "You did?"

Hannah smiled once more. "You really aren't the fastest, are you?"

"Sorry," Neville said, still staring at her and trying to make sense of what was happening. "I don't mean to be."

"It's okay," Hannah said. "I forgive you."

And then she reached for him once more and Neville didn't care that he couldn't take hints, because he'd definitely taken this one.

**OoOoOo**

_**Pirelli's Italian Restaurant**_

_**10.12 p.m.**_

"Are you okay, Ron?"

"I'm fine, Hermione, I promise."

He tried to smile reassuringly at her, but he couldn't help it; his heart was beating so hard and so fast he was amazed that she couldn't hear it, that she couldn't see the outline of it pressing against his skin. The two of them were sitting in Hermione's favourite Italian restaurant, an intimate Muggle-owned place not too far from their flat, and in Ron's humble opinion she looked beautiful tonight, wearing a simple red dress that highlighted her dark curls and clear skin. Normally she appeared awkward in a dress, unused to the femininity of it, but not tonight.

"Are you sure? You look really worried," Hermione went on, unsatisfied with his explanation. "Is it something at work?"

"I –yeah," Ron said, seizing on this gift of an excuse. He couldn't tell her; he just couldn't, she can't know. Not yet anyway. "Forget about it. I don't want it to ruin tonight."

She positively beaeds back at him. They had been to this restaurant a thousand times and personally Ron couldn't see Hermione's fascination with it, but tonight wasn't just any other night; it was their second anniversary, and he wanted it to be perfect for her. In fact he _needed_ it to be perfect for her, but as he was quickly discovering, perfect wasn't easy. For one thing, he was sweating more than he thought he had ever sweated in his life, and nothing she said and nothing he tried had thus far managed to shut down the fire hydrants in his armpits, so that he had been forced to keep his arms clamped awkwardly by his sides and make an excuse to disappear to the toilet every fifteen minutes so that he could quietly dry his shirt with his wand, which meant that soon Hermione would either figure out what was going on (meaning she would then want to know what it was that was making him so sweaty, as it wasn't particularly hot in the restaurant) thereby ruining the moment or she would think he was incontinent. He wasn't sure which he would prefer.

Then of course there was the fact that she'd not actually wanted to do very much to celebrate today.

"I'm feeling really tired," she complained to him just that morning. "Can't we just have a nice night in?"

"No," he had said, trying very hard to sound like the calm and caring boyfriend when in fact he was doing his best not to explode with frustration. "Tonight's a special night; we'll go out and do it properly. I'll even take you to Pirelli's, how's that?"

"Pirelli's?"

"Yep. My treat."

"Deal."

And then there was the irritating waiter, who had insisted on coming over every five seconds and trying to persuade Ron that he really would like to buy one of his tacky plastic roses for "the beautiful lady", ignoring the looks Ron kept throwing him until, goaded beyond endurance, Ron stepped carefully on his foot, making the waiter yelp and leave them alone after that.

"Do you want to order dessert, Ron, or shall we just pay and go home?"

So far, the meal had been beautiful, at least. Even Ron had been unable to complain about the quality of his lasagne, although he had tried very hard to, and the three glasses of wine he had drunk already were buzzing in his stomach, giving him the courage to do what he was about to. Fumbling in his pocket carefully, he reached across the table to Hermione and took her hand in his. He looked her carefully in the eyes as he did so, and said seriously, "It's up to you."

Hermione's eyes were wide as she realised what exactly he had done, and as her fingers uncurled around the ring in her hand, her other hand lifted slowly to her mouth.

Ron squeezed her hand tightly.

"Will you marry me?"


	14. Attempted Visits and The Right Answers

_**~ Chapter Fourteen – Attempted Visits and the Right Answers ~**_

_**Three weeks later…**_

_**Somewhere outside the Leaky Cauldron**_

_**Approximately four p.m**_

He was going to go in.

This time, it was going to be different. This time when he reached the yawning mouth of the door he was going to step over the threshold. He imagined it now, the way the cold sheet of wood would flatten beneath his outstretched palm as the door sighed open. The stiff heat from inside would rush to greet his face, staining it pink, steaming dry the raindrops that had settled in his hair. His legs would remember to move this time. He'd be in the warm, inside, wrapped in the curve of her smile, instead of outside, feeling the rain melt onto his skin, mingling with the nervous sweat.

None of this happened the last seven times he tried, but Neville lived in hope. The trouble was, it was all very well _picturing_ her face when he walked in, just as it was nice to imagine striding in like a promise, wrapping her in his arms and simply walking out of there with her nestled carefully in the vacant space beneath his heart, the place which, if he was honest with himself (which he rarely was, for fear of the dangers that lurked there), he knew she already occupied. But it was an entirely different thing to actually walk in there unannounced and do the deed.

Neville sighed, frowning at the unforgiving door, as if it were the sole barricade between himself and his goal, as if glaring at it would cause it to swing welcomingly open, beckoning him inside. It mocked him. _She's inside_, it sneered, its upper lip curling in delicious contempt, _but I won't let you see her_. He stared up at the sky, ignoring the door now, because surely if he couldn't see it then it couldn't exist anymore, and if it didn't exist, it couldn't create a problem for him. The sky was fat today, the threatening downpour of rain glistening through the thin membrane of bulbous grey clouds, waiting to break through. Neville could feel the misty rain spraying his face as he offered it to the sky. It was the kind of rain other people hated, the kind that likes to seep through your clothes, settling itself comfortably next to your skin with the audacity of someone who belongs there, of someone whose God-given _right_ it is to be there. The kind of rain that _isn't_.

When he finally walked up to the door once more, his eighth attempt at entering the little pub, his eyelashes were dotted with the rain. The water slid down his face, freckling it, and when he breathed the scent of it in he could taste his own cowardice, as if he were sweating it out, as if the smell of it was carried along in the air. This time, he got as far as touching the door. The wood was surprisingly warm beneath his fingers, though it was a mild day, as if it had somehow retained the heat of every hand that caressed it today. When he applied pressure the door creaked open the slightest bit, so that he received only the smallest crack of a picture he had been conjuring in his mind all day. He could see her, stretching up to reach for a fresh glass for the customer who sat before her. She wasn't facing the door. Disappointed, Neville let the door slide away from him, taking with it his remaining courage.

_I give up_.

Disheartened, Neville tugged his hood up, letting it fall to his eyes with his fringe. He stuffed his fists untidily into his pockets and began to walk home, hunched over like a question mark, filled to the brim with the words he couldn't say, words that made him heavier as he walked, words that slowed him with their fullness. He wished he could make himself do it. He wished there were some spell, some potion that could somehow crack the tightly coiled spring of his mouth loose, so that all of the words that were too big to fit through could finally be said. Hermione would know, but how could he possibly ask her? And what if she told Ron, or Harry? He had already shown that he couldn't be an Auror; he didn't need them to know that he couldn't do this, either.

The faint echoes of pain in his ankle made his frown deepen, and he forced himself to walk faster, to ignore it, even as it began to climb the ladder of his spine. It was all the fault of his limp. It was as though something was taken from him that night, along with his agility, and Neville wanted to complain sometimes that it wasn't a fair swap, his dream job for his dignity. He loved his new job, but sometimes he wished he was back fighting the Darklings with the other Aurors. Sometimes he wished he had a more exciting job, one which spawned endless exhilarating stories he could tell Hannah with, if only so that he could collect each impressed expression of her face and store it carefully away with his other memories of her. He didn't know the name of the emotion that registered on Hannah's face whenever he talked about his job, or his family. All he knew was that her eyes went soft, so soft, until the need to stroke her face made him ache.

Neville walked on, but he could feel himself slowly losing the battle with his limp, and finally, after approximately twenty minutes of fighting it, he admitted defeat. Sidling down an empty alley he turned on the spot and a loud crack rent the air in two, though the only creature who noticed it was an elderly cat which lifted its head arthritically before losing interest and returning to the desperate mouse between its paws. He arrived home a heartbeat later, though it wasn't particularly far from the Leaky Cauldron. His flat was small and simple, with little furniture, but this was exactly what Neville wanted. Ron tried to persuade him to find somewhere more comfortable, but the rent was cheap, and since Neville would be living at Hogwarts for seventy-five per cent of the year, what more could he want?

He slumped onto his sofa, slipping out of his damp robes as he did so and feeling suddenly exhausted, though he had done nothing particularly strenuous today. He settled himself more comfortably, his dark hair falling across his eyes, and tried to clear his mind, wanting to think about nothing for just five seconds today, but within minutes the image of her face was floating before his eyes, so close he could almost touch her, the memory of her scent so tangible he could almost taste the apple smell of it on his tongue.

He wasn't sure at which point the memories slipped into a dream; either way, the images glimmered and shone tantalisingly before his eyes, each of them as clear and as pure as ice. Her laughter was pure and clear and he knew it was shaped like almonds, like her eyes. He tried to count the shades that flashed in her eyes but quickly became lost, remembering the soft warmth of her mouth pressed against his own, sweetly stealing his breath, remembering the way her skin slid beneath his fingertips like silk, like desire, thinking of the way his heartbeat fluttered against her skin, resting there briefly before she stopped it completely with one kiss…

…When Neville's eyes snapped open once more the room was dark, so that all he could see was the ghostly tinted shape of his furniture. He heard the distant whine of sirens outside and rubbed a hand tiredly through his hair, wondering how long he slept for. The noise of his doorbell sang through the flat once more, and he pulled himself upright, gripping the arm of the sofa for support. He was halfway to the door when he realised that the reason he could feel the draughts sighing across his skin was that he was wearing only his underpants; grabbing for his robes he stumbled to the front door, tugging them hurriedly over his head and blushing against his will. He scrabbled for the lock and allowed the door to swing open of its own free will.

There was no one there.

Neville stuck his head out of the doorway, but there was no one to be seen. He frowned. He stared at his feet, as if they might hold the answer, and on this occasion, they did.

A single rose lay expectantly on the ground beside him, leaning casually across the doorstep as if it had always been there. Its thick red petals rested lightly on the dark floorboards, faint tendrils of fragrance barely discernible. Stooping, Neville picked it up, catching the card that fluttered from it just in time. He flipped it over, read the five carefully written words and smiled, hugging the card to his chest like a promise.

_Next time, visit me properly. _

_X_

"I will," he said , nodding to no one in particular. "I promise, I will."

**~ OoOoO ~**

_**Three weeks previously – the 29th**_ _**July 2001**_

_**Weasley's Wizard Wheezes**_

_**1.15 p.m.**_

"Show me again, Hermione, I want to see it again!"

Hermione laughed. "You saw it fifteen seconds ago!"

"I know," said Ginny, her excitement racing ahead of her words, so that they spilled untidily from her mouth. "But I _have_ to look at it one more time, at least before George comes back from lunch, and that's only another five minutes away. _Pleeeeeeeease?_"

Hermione pulled a face and Ginny ceased her whining. Hermione could not stand it when people begged her and, sighing audibly, she reached into her bag once more and pulled out a little bag made of cerise silk. Handling it as though it was filled with something as personal and precious as the creased material her heart was made of, she passed the little bag into Ginny's eagerly upturned palms. Ginny didn't open it at first but weighed the bag in the scale of her hands, as if its mass would determine its worth, and when she loosed the drawstring to extract the treasure inside she did it with as much finesse as she could muster.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, placing the ring squarely in the flat of her palm and lifting it slowly to her eyes. "I can't believe this. I can't believe he _proposed_."

"To be fair," agreed Hermione, "neither can I."

"I mean, it's _Ron_," Ginny continued. "Who knew there was more to him than stupidity? And who knew he had such great taste in jewellery?"

Ginny had a point; the ring was certainly striking. The circle of metal was made of silver so bright it seemed almost to be of a different metal, an entirely new and unique one, and set into the top were three smooth-cut oval stones of varying size, each a delicate shade of amber, though that wasn't the correct stone. Hermione had no idea what the stone is; all she knew was that she had never seen it before and, what is more, she didn't want to know. For the first time in her life she was glad to be ignorant, having decided that her ring was far more beautiful for its mystery and that to know the origins and locations of the beautiful topaz stone would tarnish it somewhat.

"I bet you were accepting before he'd even got down on one knee," Ginny said, still examining the ring.

"Not exactly," Hermione replied. Ginny's eyes snapped to her face.

"What d'you mean, _not exactly_?"

"Well, for one thing, he wasn't on one knee. He just sort of took my hand across the table and looked at me and when I looked down I was holding the ring, and then he asked me."

"_What_?!" Ginny spluttered, her eyes cracked wide with incredulity. "You're kidding! Trust Ron to muck up the most important thing he'll ever do!"

"He didn't muck it up," Hermione said, a little more acidic than she had intended. "I'm glad he didn't get down on one knee in front of the whole restaurant," she added more serenely, flicking her wand casually at a nearby chair and thinking _Accio_ so that she could sit down beside Ginny. "I'd have felt under pressure to say yes."

Ginny looked hard at her friend. "You did _say_ yes, didn't you, Hermione? Tell me you said yes."

"Of course I said yes!" Hermione snapped, though her voice was devoid of its usual irritation this time. "To tell you the truth, though, I nearly didn't."

Ginny didn't say anything at first. She placed the ring carefully down on the counter surface, folded her arms meaningfully and fixed her dark eyes on Hermione, her face set carefully.

"Explain," she said, the unspoken tension crackling in the space between the syllables. For a moment she looked almost frightening. Her eyes were darker than Hermione had ever seen, the colour of cold obsidian, hard and unfathomable, and her face was as empty and as cool as stone. She didn't look like Ginny.

"Before you hex me into oblivion," Hermione said, holding up her hand as if to ward off an attack. "Hear me out. I nearly said no because at the time I was trying to recover from the _enormous_ heart attack I'd just had at the shock of him doing the exact opposite of what I thought that dinner was for."

"Explain more."

The addition of the second word seemed to soften Ginny's expression somewhat; there was curiosity behind the light in her eyes rather than the cold fury that fizzed there only seconds before, though the dark obsidian edge was still there. Hermione took a deep breath and continued.

"I thought he was going to dump me."

Ginny couldn't contain herself. "_What?! Are you mad?!"_

"No," Hermione said quietly.

"You've got to be mad," Ginny said, calming herself slightly, though she was shaking her head in disbelief. "Because I know for a fact you aren't stupid, and you've got to be one or the other to have thought Ron was going to dump you. That won't ever happen – not unless you do something to deserve it, and even then it'd need to be pretty drastic."

"What makes you the expert?" Hermione asked waspishly. She loved Ginny like a sister, but even sisters were allowed to be annoyed if they were accused of insanity.

"Try the fact that I've actually had conversations with my brother in the last few years," Ginny replied equally snappily, not to be outdone. "And I'm not even just talking about the time since you two got together, either; I'm going back to when you were both about fourteen. And then there's the fact that he's _Ron_ – it's not exactly difficult to read him. He's not what you'd call _deep_ or anything."

"Meaning?"

"_Meaning_, all my brother does is talk about _you_. Whenever he has to have a conversation with someone, you're the first subject that comes to mind. When I talk to him I can actually see him trying to think of something else to say that's _not_ about you, because I already know half the stories anyway. He's been mad about you for years and years, except you were both too stupid to see it. Believe it or not, but the only reason he even _realised_ he loved you was because I spelled it out for him _very_ clearly the summer before your fifth year, when I got sick of listening to the _Viktor-Krum-Is-A-Dickhead_ rant for the millionth time. And even _then_ it took him forever to get his act together, and I got to listen to _another_ year of his whinging and the _dickhead_ rant was updated to be about Cormac McLaggen – I _still_ can't believe you actually stooped that low - and you honestly thought he'd throw all that away like that?

"And you know something else?" Ginny paused to draw breath before launching back into her disbelieving rant, her lightening eyes wild. "I had a feeling he wanted to propose at Christmas. I don't know why I was so surprised when he actually did, because I _knew_ something was going to happen. Remember that crap office party he and Harry made us go to for the Auror Department? Remember that? Every single time I heard him mention you or introduce you to someone you didn't know, _every single _time, he said _My f-girlfriend, Hermione. _He _always_ made that _f-_sound before he said girlfriend, never just the word _girlfriend _on its own_, _and I think it's because he kept nearly saying _fiancée_ instead of _girlfriend _and he was remembering at the last minute that he hadn't actually proposed to you yet. And when you agreed to move in with him he was so excited I had to put a Tongue-Tying Hex on him just to shut him up. That's _not_ a joke, by the way. Now, please explain to me why you think someone like that would be planning on dumping you and would be cruel enough to do it in your favourite restaurant on your anniversary. I'm being serious – I genuinely want to know, because _I don't understand_."

Ginny folded her arms expectantly and looked at Hermione, but her face held no anger; there wasn't even any disbelief there anymore. She looked genuinely confused, as if she was somehow missing the simplest thing in the world, and she stared searchingly at Hermione as if she were desperately asking her to explain why suddenly two plus two equalled five.

"I know all that," Hermione sighed, choosing her words carefully, trying to extract them from the tangle of words that were all wrong. "But that doesn't mean the relationship can't die. Love isn't always enough."

"So what changed?"

"We've not been arguing."

The intake of breath Hermione heard from her friend told her all that she needed to know.

"_Exactly_," she told her triumphantly. "It's been going on for a while. It's like he's deliberately been not arguing with me. It was lovely at first, but after a while it just got weird. Maybe it doesn't work for everyone else, but that's how we function. That's how we've _always_ functioned, right from the start. We bicker and we fight and we're sarcastic to each other, but we always make up and it's never serious. And for the last month…well, we just _haven't_, and it's been like there's something missing. If I'd said no it wouldn't have been because I didn't love him, or because I didn't think he loved me back, and it wouldn't have been because I'm not ready or anything like that. It would have been because we weren't working anymore."

"So what changed your mind then? Because you clearly didn't say no or you wouldn't have shown me the ring, or even told me."

"I asked him."

"You _asked_ him?" Ginny's eyes were wide once more – the disbelief was back. "What did you say?"

"I didn't say yes at first. I smiled at him, and told him that I would on one condition; he had to answer my question, honestly, and then I'd give him my answer. And then I said to him, 'Why haven't we argued lately?', and do you know what he told me? He told me it was because he'd been trying his best not to, because he was terrified I'd say no if we'd not been getting on. He said it was the hardest month of his life, because I'd been deliberately winding him up and he couldn't react, even though he really wanted to."

"And then you said yes?"

"Of course I said yes," Hermione said, echoing herself, but this time the words were spoken softly, and they resonated gently with the memory of that moment. "How could I have said no? He looked so terrified that I was going to say no anyway, even after he'd not argued with me and he'd explained himself, that I started crying and I just wanted to hug him and kiss him and tell him he was an idiot. Which I did, right after I told him yes."

"Right," said Ginny, in a stiff tone of voice that told Hermione she was still unconvinced. "In that case, why didn't you run in screaming to me that you were getting married? You're still not sure, are you?"

Hermione hesitated, the fractured sentence hanging awkwardly in the space between the two girls. She bites her lip.

"Part of me's scared we're too young."

Ginny laughed, one note of pure disbelief. "Hermione, you've been asked to marry someone who's already swept in and saved your life a dozen times and he did it without any of the glory or the gold that most knights in shining armour want. He did it just because he loves you, and he does love you. I know he's not got a white horse but if you're waiting for your hero, you've already got him."

"That's true," Hermione said pensively, warming to the idea. White draped material drifted lazily across her mind's eye, and the papery scent of parchment and grass clippings filled her nostrils.

"And besides," Ginny continued, "you've known him since you were eleven. You've seen his best and his worst, and you've been living with him for the best part of a year – trust me, there's not going to be any nasty surprises that you'll only find out when you're married to him. Personally, I don't know what you're waiting for, because if Harry asked me to marry him I'd be in there like a shot."

"Excellent," came a familiar voice behind them. "When that happens make sure you invite lots of pretty girls to the wedding so they can meet your devastatingly handsome big brother."

George walked out from the back room where the stock was kept, coming up behind Ginny and greeting the two girls; a nod of the head and a smile for Hermione, a finger flicked into the left shoulder for Ginny.

"Well, _I'll_ need to meet this 'devastatingly handsome' brother of mine I've supposedly got first," Ginny grinned, and George slapped her arm good-naturedly. "You're back early."

"Yeah, I got bored so I thought I'd come back and keep you company."

"You mean annoy me."

"Exactly."

"George, how long have you been back there?" Though she tried, Hermione was unable to keep the anxiety out of her voice. She trusted George with her life; the conversation she just had, however, was not her life, and George had a thicker tie to Ron than he would ever have to Hermione. What if he told Ron? She didn't know what would break Ron's heart hardest; the fact that she nearly said no, or the fact that his own siblings knew before he did?

But George only grinned winningly. "Long enough to suspect that my dear baby brother might have some interesting news. Am I right?"

Hermione nodded, the relief so strong it made her fingertips numb. "You won't tell anyone, will you? I haven't told anyone else yet."

George draws a finger first across his lips and then over his heart. "Not a word," he says, and Hermione feels herself smiling.

"Well," said Hermione, standing and reaching for the ring and the cerise bag. "I'd better be going."

"Can't you stay for some lunch?"

Hermione shook her head happily at Ginny. "I'd love to, but I can't."

"What's the hurry?"

"I've got to go tell my mum I'm getting married."

**~ OoOoO ~**

_**29th**_ _**July 2001**_

_**The Granger's Home**_

_**6.37 p.m**_

The dinner plates had been swept to one side and stacked high, though the food on Hermione's plate remained barely touched. She picked at her meal, already brimming with her secret, and she had no idea how she had managed to bite down on it for so long already. She had been at her parents' home for several hours now, and she still had not broken the news to the two of them. The three of them sat in the living room now, a glass of wine in Catherine's hand, water in Hermione's.

"Is Ron coming over tonight?" Robert asked, lifting his eyes from his newspaper briefly to focus on his only daughter. Hermione nodded.

"He will be," she said, looking at her watch. "In about half an hour."

"Oh, good," Catherine smiled. "He always tells such funny stories about work."

"Well," said Hermione, choosing her words carefully, "I actually came over for a reason."

Catherine sat up straighter in her seat, holding her wine glass higher so that it didn't spill. Robert merely smiled knowingly and folded his newspaper away, settling himself more comfortably.

"Why's that, darling?" Catherine's voice was warm; it stroked the side of Hermione's face the way it used to when she was small and it was the surest way to scare away any residual monsters that were still foolish enough to remain in her room after she had screamed for her mother to save her. "Have you been promoted?"

"Even better," said Hermione. "I'm getting married."

There was a loud shriek and suddenly Hermione's vision was obscured; it was several seconds before she realised that the reason she could no longer see was because her mother's blouse was currently pressed against her face as Catherine hugged Hermione tighter than she had since her daughter was five years old and worrying about the spelling words she had to learn for homework.

"Oh, sweetheart, that's fantastic," she cried, smearing Hermione's beaming face with lipstick kisses. "When, when did this happen?"

"Last night," Hermione admitted, and Catherine shrieked once more and hugged her daughter even more tightly. Hermione tried to ignore the soggy feeling between her toes, which she knew was the wine-stained carpet from Catherine's excited exertions. "He asked me in the restaurant."

"Oh, show me the ring, sweetheart, show me." Catherine grabbed her daughter's left hand and lifted it to her eyes to study the long bare fingers, their clean sculpted nails. "Where is it, Hermione?"

"In my bag," Hermione said, pulling it out for her, and Catherine's mouth rounded on the shape of her surprise.

"But – why aren't you wearing it, darling?"

"Because we haven't told Ron's family yet, or Harry, and I don't want to wear it until everyone knows. And besides, I want to be the one to tell people, not a piece of jewellery."

"I suppose so," Catherine conceded. She turned to her husband. "Aren't you going to say something, Robert?"

"What can I say?" Robert said, kissing his daughter's cheek happily. "I was wondering what was taking Ron so long."

"What do you mean, 'so long', Dad?"

Robert's smile seemed to hook itself into the corners of his mouth, pulling them upwards and lighting his eyes up with it, so that his happiness was evident across the entire span of his face. "I gave him my blessing weeks ago."

Catherine gasped. "You _knew_ he was going to propose?!"

Robert nodded. "He asked me for permission," he said, and he didn't know it, but those five simple words made Hermione's heart burst with love for them both; Ron for doing so much to show how much he wanted to marry her; her father for not telling her, for letting Ron tell her as was his right. She could feel tears welling in her eyes and blinked them away.

Catherine, however, was focussing on something rather different to this show of fatherly love. "You knew our baby was going to be getting married, and you didn't even _tell_ me?"

"Why should I?" Robert shrugged. "It's not my news to tell."

"Well," Catherine puffed herself up, but an easy smile and a raised eyebrow from her husband seemed to puncture her, and she smiled at her daughter instead. "Well, when that boyfriend of yours – or should I say, that _fiancé_- gets here we'll have to go for a meal to celebrate. Anywhere you like, my love, our treat."

"We've just eaten!" Hermione said.

"Oh, what sort of a world is this where you can't eat two dinners the day you hear your only child is getting married?" Catherine laughed, mock-outraged. "Anyway, isn't there some spell you can do to empty our stomachs?"

"If there was it would only be one to make you throw up," Hermione smiled, and before Catherine could respond the door bell sang through the little house. Hermione could feel Catherine's burning desire to open the door herself, but she stood quickly, cutting off her mother's movements before they begin.

"That'll be Ron," she said. "_I'll_ go."

She moved down the hallway quickly, feeling her parents' eyes on her retreating back, and when she opened the door to see Ron standing there, his hair lying messily on top of his head and his top shirt buttons undone, she did the only thing that made sense in her mind; pulling him to her she buried herself in his arms, reaching up and kissing his mouth tenderly. She looked into his eyes and said two words filled with so much meaning that it took all of her effort to lift them to him.

"Thank you," she said, and she silently breathed the last two words against his chest, so that they might pass directly to his heart, where they'd have the most impact.

_For everything. _

_**~ OoOoO ~ **_


	15. The Longest Night in the World

_**~ Chapter Fifteen – The Longest Night in the World~**_

**_Sunday July 29th 2001_**

_**8.18 p.m**_

_**West Llewellyn High Street, London**_

"Why am I _always_ in the middle of something important whenever things really kick off?" Ron grumbled, pulling his ReflectoVest on – a thin purple coloured tunic designed to rebound curses upon their originator and one of George's latest inventions developed for _Weasley Wizard Wheezes_ sideline into defensive spells and armoury for the Ministry. "_Every single bloody time_."

"Oh, stop moaning, Ron," Harry said, only half-listening as he began pulling his own ReflectoVest on and checked for the fifth time that his wand was stowed carefully in his belt. "_This_ is far more important than anything you might have been doing – can we focus, please?"

To Harry's surprise, Ron did not reply, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly as if tugged upwards by some happy inward thought and, shrugging, he pulled out his Identity Badge, an ordinary plain badge but charmed, and tapped it twice with his wand, so that when he flashed it at a Muggle it would read whatever he needed it to, allowing him to assume any professional role necessary. Beside him Harry did the same, and the small clicks that filled the air told him that the others were following suit.

Following the successful capture of Orion Finchley under Harry's leadership, the current Head of the Auror Department, Jeremy Filkins, had since promoted him, giving him control of his own small team of Aurors. Mostly they were new recruits, or had at the very most been working for the Ministry for approximately one year, and they were passed on to Harry initially for their basic field training before being taken on standard missions. Some, for obvious reasons, were more skilled, the prime example being Ron, who volunteered himself to accompany such missions as Harry's second-in-command before Harry's sentence requesting him to do just that had even left his lips. Today was one such mission. Harry turned to his assembled team, taking in the different faces and trying to recall each of their names before he began to speak.

"Right, I know you all know the routine, but as always, you can't be too prepared, so I don't want to see anyone mucking around. You go in, you do the job you're paid to do, and you get out, understood?"

There was a general murmur of assent, which Harry noted satisfactorily before continuing.

"This looks like a normal one – make sure you know the story, and only use Memory Charms if necessary. They can be dangerous if they're done badly, and I don't want to see any more people hurt than have already been. Make sure everyone, and I mean _everyone_, is out, no exceptions, and if any of you get into trouble, send up red sparks. Everybody know what they're doing? Good. "

The fear seemed to steam from the youngest of the new recruits, a thin and nervous-looking boy of nineteen; he fiddled awkwardly with the hem of his sleeves and his mouth was drawn tight. Harry could tell that he was afraid and trying not to show it, but the others were looking resolutely at Harry and Ron, some nodding in time to their instructions, others with a steely glint in their eyes, whilst this boy, Ryan Stebbins, had eyes that were filled with some kind of feral quality. Harry opened his mouth to reassure this boy but the words were plucked from his lips before he had a chance to give them voice.

"Don't look so worried, Ryan; it's just a standard clean-up," came the soft American lilt of Sebastian's voice. Harry could hear the smile twisting in it. Sebastian clapped a hand onto the young boy's shoulders and grinned his easy smile. "You go in; you tell them it was an explosion from a ruptured gas pipe; you go home and put your feet up. Nothing to be scared of. Right?"

He squeezed the boy's shoulder, prompting him to answer.

"Right," Ryan replied, grinning nervously, the way a threatened dog might.

"Don't let the side down," said Sebastian, still smiling winningly. "Are we ready then, boys? Time's a-wastin'." He made to move forward, but Harry's voice stayed his feet.

"Hang on, Sebastian," he called. "You can't just charge in; we need to make sure everything's ready. I don't want any mistakes this time, so in future you wait for my signal before you go in. Understood?"

The grin slid from Sebastian's face and Ron noted with an extraordinary level of satisfaction the muscle working in his rival's jaw as he digested Harry's words and pondered how best to respond. Unfortunately for Ron, who wanted to watch Harry assert his authority over Sebastian (which somehow, in Ron's Technicolor visions culminated in Sebastian screaming and then exploding into a thousand tiny pieces and never being seen again), Sebastian simply forced the smile back to his lips, though he couldn't quite keep the flinty resentment out of his eyes, which were locked firmly onto Harry's as if trying to stare him down, the way a dog would. His smile was too carefully arranged, too bright; the thin threads of contempt caught between his teeth were plain to see, and Ron watched carefully as he nodded, a single defiant movement of his head, so that his dark-blonde curls rippled slightly and fell over his eyes, masking them a little.

"Perfectly," he said, the word bitten off at the ends.

_**Meanwhile…**_

_**The Granger's Home**_

_**8.35 p.m**_

The night sky outside had slowly wound itself out into a great speckled mass that seemed to hang ominously over Hermione's head even as she sat in the living room of her parents' home, the glass in her hand long since drained, trying to shut out her mother's words.

"Well, I still don't understand why he couldn't have stayed for just a drink, at the very _least_," Catherine said for the fifteenth time this past hour, though by now she was simply becoming white noise to her assembled family. "I mean, it's meant to be a _celebration_, and yet the first thing he does is rush off!"

"I've already told you, Mum, he got called away to work." Hermione kept her voice deliberately airy, though she was worrying the edge of the cushion she held with the fingers of her left hand, so that fine strands of cotton were loosening themselves in her lap, casualties of her true feelings. "I'm fine with it, so you should be too."

"Well, I'm not fine with it. You've just told me you're engaged, tonight was supposed to be about celebrating that, and he just rushes off to go to work like it's any other night!"

Hermione's voice was forced out through gritted teeth, awkwardly pleasant in its falsity. "He's always getting called to work. It must be something important."

Catherine folded her arms, one eyebrow raised expertly. "What's more important than an engagement, I'd like to know?" she pressed, ignoring the warm feel of her husband's warning glances on the back of her neck. "He could have at least had one drink, or – or _something_!"

"It's _nothing_." Hermione hissed the second word, hoping that her feral expression and the quiet resonance of it would persuade her mother to drop the subject, to talk about something else, anything else. She wished for once that she had the kind of mother who never asked questions, who wasn't so indignant on her behalf, who let her fend for herself. Catherine had never been that sort of woman.

"Well, if work is nothing then why couldn't he have stayed?"

"Cathy…" came Robert's voice from his place beside the fire, floating over the folded edge of his newspaper. He licked a finger and turned the page, frowning at its contents.

"What?" Catherine's voice was resentful, defiant. "If he's rushing off to work now, at a celebration for his _engagement_, then what happens if something kicks off on the day of the wedding? Is he just going to run back down the aisle and go anyway? And what about –"

"Oh, for god's sake, Mum!" Hermione snapped, making her mother jump. "It's obviously _something_ or he wouldn't have had to go! Something's clearly happened but it's _nothing_, okay?"

Catherine didn't reply immediately but looked to her husband for support. When Robert only shrugged, conveying a thousand meanings without saying a word, she pursed her lips with mild indignation before returning to her daughter.

"I know you're upset right now," she said in her calmest voice, the lyrical would-be soothing _mothering_ one which always made Hermione just a little bit crazy, "so I'm going to ignore the way you spoke to me just now. _However_ - " (she raised a hand for silence, correctly anticipating Hermione's noises of protest at her words, and continued)"– there's no excuse for rudeness, ever. So don't expect to make that a habit. Now, why don't you calm yourself down and tell me what's wrong?"

"You mean _besides_ the fact my boyfriend's running off to fight some dark wizards and _you're_ worrying he's missing a couple of drinks?"

"Hermione. Enough." Robert's voice was soft but firm; a tone he had never had to use with his daughter before. He had never had reason to before now. "Respect your mother."

Hermione closed her eyes briefly before resting them lightly on her mother's face, using the few seconds to collect the words.

"That year that I had to…to do what I did," she began falteringly; they generally did not speak of the year that was lost to them, Catherine being insistent that the past was unimportant and that "the Now", as she called it, was infinitely more crucial. "That was because of the war coming, and all the Dark wizards, and I was frightened that you'd be a target because I was."

"Hermione, you've already explained all this to me, and I've already told you it doesn't matter," Catherine said, her voice soft and padded now that Hermione's venom has evaporated.

"Let me finish," Hermione pleaded gently, examining her fingers as they lay strewn across the slope of her lap. She took a deep breath before continuing, as though the extra oxygen would strengthen her. "We thought we'd defeated them after the war, and for the last two years everything's been really quiet. But there's another group of Dark wizards who still believe in everything Vol-_he_ taught, and they're trying to start everything up again. Nothing's really happened so far, but they've killed a couple of Muggles. The Ministry's been covering it up, because the Auror Department have been working so hard to capture them, and some of them have already been put into prison."

"I don't understand…" breathed Catherine. Hermione looked up, so that Catherine could see clearly the fine sheen over her daughter's eyes.

"When Ron gets called away for work…it's not to do some filing, or to write up a report. It's because something's happened, there's been an attack or something, and he's got to go and try to fix everything. And that makes him a target. These people…they'll do whatever it takes to win. They don't care who they hurt or how much destruction they cause. And every time Ron gets called away to fight them again…it scares me so much."

"Oh, Hermione," Catherine sighed and she tried to pull her daughter into her arms, but Hermione pulled back. "He's been through worse than all of this, hasn't he, and he's always come out on top."

"I know," Hermione told her. "But this is worse than that whole year we were on the run, because at least then I was with him, I always knew when he was safe and when he wasn't. It's all this, this sitting around – it drives me crazy, because I'm just imagining all the horrible things that could be happening to him, and to Harry – to all of them, and I'm just sitting here waiting to be told."

"Then don't just sit there," Catherine advised, holding her daughter's gaze. "Do something. Read, do some work, see friends – just distract yourself and you won't think so much about the things that might never happen."

"I've tried all of that," Hermione sighed. "None of it works. I feel like I can't breathe until he's home."

There was a long and awkward pause in which Hermione got the distinct feeling that her mother did not know what to tell her, and this more than anything depressed her, because what else is your mother for if not to tell you how to fix everything?

"Anyway, I'd better get home," Hermione pulled herself to her feet, stretching as she did so and surreptitiously wiping her eyes clear. "I always make sure that I'm awake when he comes home, so that I can see for myself that he's okay. Thanks for dinner."

"We'll celebrate next week, yes?" Robert had stood up now, and Hermione smiled with gratitude to her father for reminding her that there would be a tomorrow. "My treat."

"Thanks," she breathed, and hugging them both she turned on the spot and was gone with a loud _crack_, leaving Catherine touching the space she had vacated with an outstretched palm, as though by feeling the air where her daughter was she could somehow fix in her absence the problem she could not solve whilst she sat before her.

_**10.25 p.m**_

_**West Llewellyn High Street, London**_

"Madam, I understand perfectly, but I need you to step this way please, it's very dangerous for you right now."

Ron's voice was patient but strained. They had been here almost ninety minutes and it had been made clear that the situation was worse than they originally anticipated. For one thing, the 'gas explosion' had caused more damage than they first thought, with the result that there were already three prone bodies lying beneath a Ministry tent, their crumpled bodies covered gently by black draped cloths. Thus far they had not come across any Darklings, though some of the trainee Aurors had been ordered to sweep the area as a precaution, but Harry was not taking any chances; the entire area had been encompassed with ward charms, preventing De-Apparition and effectively sealing in any remaining Darklings within the boundaries of West Llewellyn High Street, and all of the people recovered from the area were being checked for signs of magical ability.

Ordinarily the high street was alive with pedestrians, most of them restaurant goers as the shops closed several hours previously, but tonight the few people here were divided into three: the injured, whose wounds were being tended to by a team of Healers before their memories were expertly wiped; those who lay fallen, the tiny pathetic forms huddled awkwardly beneath the dark sheet of the Ministry tent, waiting to be recovered and claimed; and, finally, those uninjured Muggles who needed to be moved to safety. Mrs Scales was just one of those people and, just to spite Ron (or at least, that is the reason he had decided upon to explain her hostility) she was being as difficult as she possibly could. It might have been the stress of the evening's events. It might have been a kind of revenge for the magical ability test she received, though it was neither painful nor, indeed, even noticed by her, since it was a simple spell. Privately, Ron just felt that he got unlucky.

"Now, you listen to me, boy, I've got a good few years on you and you're not pulling the wool over _my_ eyes," she said now, bristling with self-righteousness and drawing herself up to her full height of five foot. "Now out of my way, I need to get my handbag, it's got all my money inside."

"Mrs Scales, it isn't safe, there's been an exploded gas pipe, and the area is being sectioned off -" Ron began again, rubbing his eyes tiredly with the flat of his palm, and using his other hand to attempt to steer the tiny woman over to the safe zone but Mrs Scales was too quick for him and wriggled from his grasp.

"Exploded gas pipe my foot!" she screeched, her wiry grey hair trembling beneath the force of her voice. "I've heard some rubbish in my life but this takes the biscuit, this does, so you answer me this, boy – if it was a gas explosion then who the heck were those men in white cloaks, eh? Think I'm stupid, do you boy, you're not fooling me. I grew up in the war, my boy, I know what an explosion sounds like! And why were people screaming _before_ this so-called explosion?"

"Mrs Scales -" Ron tried again but broke off, sighing, as Mrs Scales continued her ranting, her saggy jowls wobbling indignantly as she warmed to her theme.

"And another thing – what were those sticks they were waving around? Laughing like lunatics, they were, and you want me to believe it was a poxy gas explosion! That's my purse lying over there in the rubble somewhere and my husband's at home waiting for his dinner and now I've got you, a silly little boy playing at being a man, standing in front of me with your greasy hair and your fake smile telling me what's what!"

Fighting the urge to lift a hand to his hair to check if Mrs Scales' acerbic words were true, Ron instead focused on the job at hand. Pulling the little woman away slightly, he looked into her faded blue eyes and asked quietly, "How many men were there, and where did you see them?"

"Oh, so now you've changed your story, have you?" Mrs Scales continued, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, her ruddy cheeks even pinker from the exertions of her ranting. "Can't even do your bloody job – well, I saw at least four of them, even you couldn't miss them, big white cloaks they had on, walking around the place shouting and laughing."

"And that's all you saw?" Ron's voice was urgent now; this was worse than he'd feared.

"Of course it bloody well is!" Mrs Scales was almost bellowing. "And I'll tell you something else, I want a better explanation than a bloody gas explosion – there's something fishy going on, you mark my words, and - "

The words seemed to slip away from her and a vague, dreamy expression fluttered across her face, so that she merely gazed serenely up at Ron, not noticing the wand-tip poking into her plump side the way she didn't hear the whispered spell dropping from his parted lips.

"Mrs Scales, I'm Detective Weasley. There has been a small gas explosion here tonight caused by a burst gas pipe," Ron said briskly, flashing his fake identity badge at her and wishing he'd done this earlier; there were other people who were in far more need of help than this woman and he was tired of dealing with her. "You are unhurt, and the area is being cordoned off whilst the enquiry is ongoing. You're free to go home."

"Thank you, officer," said Mrs Scales distractedly, smiling ridiculously, and she pottered off contentedly.

Ron's job finished, he looked up, searching through the little crowd of remaining people and seeking out Harry's face among the rest; he still had not told him his news, and this night did not look like ending any time soon. Thinking of the task ahead of him made him smile inwardly as Hermione's face drifted across his mind's eye, and he had to fight down the fizzing of excitement in his stomach at the thought of her. He checked his watch once more, for the thousandth time tonight, willing the hands to move faster so that he could go home and finish celebrating. _11.05 p.m. _Finally, spotting the familiar crop of messy dark hair he made his way towards his friend, determined that before the night was over he would have told Harry his news, and what better time than now?

Unfortunately for Ron, hell chose that precise moment to break loose.

_**Harry and Ginny's flat**_

_**11.29 p.m**_

"Hermione, stop checking your watch," Ginny said from her position on the squashy sofa. "You're making me nervous."

"I can't help it," Hermione replied, her fingertips dancing agitatedly across the fat body of her coffee-cup. She had been sitting in Ginny's flat for two and a half hours and yet she was still on her first cup of now ice-cold coffee, being too wound up to drink any of it. She picked distractedly at the skin that hugged the surface of the brown liquid, arranging it artfully over the thick edge of the cup. "Why aren't they back yet?"

"I don't know," Ginny said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice; this was the fiftieth time Hermione had expressed this question to her and it was only making her even more worried.

"They're never out this late, are they? I mean, it's never this long; they're always back long before now. It's been hours." Hermione was clutching at her hair with her free hand, great fistfuls of it, though Ginny doubted she realised she was doing it. She doubted, also, that Hermione was aware that if she continued at her present rate she'd have no nails left to bite away. "I _knew_ I should have made him take that mobile phone – he kept telling me he couldn't work out all the buttons."

"They're fine, Hermione," Ginny said firmly, wondering who she was trying to convince; herself, or Hermione. "It's probably just taking time to sort everything out, that's all. Stop worrying." She pulled herself up from the sofa. "Stay there; I'll get you another cup of coffee. You look like you could use one."

"Oh, no, that's all right, this one's…" Hermione looked down at her cup and noticed, as if for the first time, the slimy trail of puckered skin leading from the surface of her drink and hanging over the edge. "Ugh. Actually, that coffee sounds great."

"I thought so," replied Ginny. "I'll make it the Muggle way – it always tastes stronger for some reason."

She sailed out of the living room and into the kitchen, leaving Hermione clutching her disgusting coffee cup on the tip of the sofa. She stared hard at it, trying to focus on that, because if her head was filled with stale coffee and a dirty mug then it couldn't be filled with thoughts of Ron, and of Harry, of them injured, of them pleading for mercy, begging for help, for their lives. If she was concentrating on the coffee cup then nothing would have happened; as long as she didn't think about all of the terrible possibilities then somehow that would keep them safe, both of them, because she wasn't there to protect them, to help them. It wasn't working. Fight them as she may, images still floated unbidden across her minds eye; awful screams unfurled themselves in her head, and the memory of a cold, cruel laugh echoed within. Hermione put down the coffee cup. She had never prayed in her life, Catherine having always been insistent that religion is something you have to find for yourself rather than have it forced upon you, but she prayed now, eyes closed, head bowed, lips moving faster than she thought they ever had before, begging whichever celestial being that might be gazing down upon her for help.

"Have you seen Neville at all lately?" came Ginny's voice from the kitchen, nudging Hermione from her reverie.

"Not for a couple of weeks," Hermione called back distractedly, opening her eyes and unclasping her hands. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," smiled Ginny, returning to the living room holding two steaming mugs. "There you go – actually drink it this time."

"Thanks," Hermione said, sipping gratefully from the mug. She frowned. "Why were you asking about Neville?"

"Let's just say I don't think he's sweet and innocent anymore and leave it that, shall we?" Ginny said, as she settled herself back down again, the mug held at her mouth partially masking her smile, and when Hermione looked at her in slight confusion she winked, conveying her meaning instantly.

"You mean he's got a girlfriend?"

"Bingo."

"Wow." Hermione allowed the unexpected information to sink in. "Who is it, or don't you know?"

"I'll give you a clue," Ginny said, sipping from her mug. "We went to school with her."

"My year or yours?"

"Yours."

"Okay. I'll need more than that."

"She's got blonde hair…"

"My God, it's not Luna, is it?"

The look of shock on Hermione's face made Ginny laugh out loud. "No! What made you think that? The last I heard of Luna she was off travelling the world. I can't even imagine the kind of person she'll end up with. Someone very tolerant, I suppose. No, this person was in Hufflepuff."

"Erm…"

"Come on, Hermione, it's not like you to take so long working something out. She used to have her hair in plaits all the time...come on, it's not that hard!"

"I don't know." Hermione shrugged helplessly; Ginny's sing-song voice trailing the clues uselessly before her had not helped. "I give up."

"Her surname's Abbott!" Ginny almost exploded with frustration at Hermione's new-found obtuseness. Realisation hit and Hermione lifted a hand to her mouth and gasped.

"Hannah! As in the Hannah who got hysterical right before our OWLs, _that_ Hannah? The Hannah that always had a pink face?"

"No offence but how many Hannah Abbotts do you know? Especially ones that were in your year, in Hufflepuff and had blonde plaits." Ginny's voice was tinged with amusement amid the sarcasm. "Of _course_ that Hannah!"

"Oh, very funny," Hermione said, shooting a big fake smile at her soon-to-be sister-in-law. "Wow. I'd have never imagined those two together."

"Me neither, and yet here we are."

"Are you sure they're together? For definite?"

Hermione's voice still contained slight traces of scepticism, and Ginny raised an eyebrow in response.

"Let's see," she said, pretending to think, lips pursed and a finger pressed carefully to them. She splayed her fingers and counted off on them. "Well, I've seen them out a couple of times, and every time I've seen them they've either been holding hands, or playing a serious game of tonsil tennis, or he's had his arm around her, or - "

"All right, all right, I get it!" Hermione laughed. "Wow, that's really great for him. I'll have to make sure to see him and say congratulations. Did you speak to them?"

"No," Ginny said, stretching slightly, a yawn splitting her face in two. "I didn't get the chance, really; the last time I saw them they were in Diagon Alley and I was in the shop, so I couldn't really talk, but they looked really happy."

"So by the sounds of it there'll be another wedding coming up then."

"I hope so," Ginny told her. "It gives me an excuse to get dressed up!"

The two of them sat pensively for a few moments, each sipping at their coffee and lost in their own thoughts. The silence hung comfortably between them, the way it did between good friends, and when Hermione finally broke it the words slipped easily through the folds of air.

"Thank you," she told Ginny sincerely, passing her a smile. "For distracting me. I needed that."

Ginny took the smile and held it for a moment or two before her own mouth twisted into a gentle grin. "Anytime."

_**West Llewellyn High Street**_

_**12.02 a.m.**_

"Harry! Duck!"

Ron's cry felt torn from him as he fired spells towards the Darkling attacking him. To his side Harry heeded his call and rolled to the side, shouting "_Stupefy!"_ as he did so; the curse from the fallen wizard hissed dangerously close to the top of Harry's head as the man toppled backwards, Harry's spell having hit him full in the chest. Scrambling towards him, Harry wiped away the dirt smudged across his face from his sudden roll and pointed his wand directly at the man's chest.

"_Incarcerous_," he muttered, sending thick ropes spewing from the tip of his wand which wrapped themselves tightly around the fallen Darkling's prone body, ensuring his compliance when he came to, and then he was away again, running until he felt as though his lungs would snap free of his ribcage, so enlarged were they. It had been an hour since the world was pulled from beneath their feet; an hour since the first curse came whistling over the heads of the Muggles they had not yet pulled to safely and claimed the life of a fourth, a small boy with sandy hair and the enormous eyes of an innocent; an hour since the truth was revealed.

Terror has a sound of all of its own. It's a sound that stays with you, always, echoing from the centre of you in the darkest rooms of the night. Screams borne of it have their own distinct shape and resonance and taste quite unlike most other screams, because screams of terror are dragged from your lips, from your heart, from the depths of your soul. Ron learned this lesson years ago, over and over again, and it was one he hoped, every time, that he would not learn again. Over the heads of the panicking Muggles around him he could see his colleagues fighting for control; Ryan Stebbins, in an unexpected feat of presence of mind, had long since sealed the tent containing the few unharmed Muggles with protective wards and charms, so that the Darklings couldn't make their way inside and so, equally, that they couldn't be harmed in the crossfire.

Ron ducked once more, dodging a jet of green light, and running towards his attacker he aimed his wand squarely at him. His blue eyes glistened maniacally in the darkness and his pristine white hood had fallen down, revealing longish and impossibly black hair, which framed a slender pale face marred by a long silver scar which cups his left cheek. He grinned, pulling back his lips over pearlescent teeth, and deflected Ron's hastily aimed spell easily, lifting his own wand and saying softly, "_Expelliarmus_."

Ron heard the slight whoosh that told him his wand had skittered away from him; glancing around quickly he located it once more but it had rolled to the side, coming to rest beside a fallen Muggle, and the Darkling was closer. He looked back at the tall man and watched, as if in slow motion, as he lifted his wand lazily, pointing it directly at the terrified space Ron's heart occupied, and then, wandless, Ron did the only thing that came to his mind.

The feel of his fist slamming into the still-grinning man's nose, of his muscles and bone sliding brokenly beneath Ron's curled knuckles, was glorious. The Darkling stumbled backwards before sailing gracefully towards the ground in a delicate arc, the strings of blood flailing from his nose landing a half-second after he did. Ron looked down at his tightly coiled fist in wonder, because the man on the pavement beneath him was out cold. Trying not to smile too smugly, he ran to grab his wand and pointed it back at the bleeding man, siphoning away the blood and mucus so that he did not choke on it and escape that way, and binding him with spells and charms so that he would still be lying here when the battle was over.

"Ron."

He heard his name called as though from far away, and looked up to find Harry standing beside him.

"Nice punch," Harry told him admiringly. He bent down to examine the unconscious man, prodding him unceremoniously with the tip of his wand. "This looks like O'Connell, mate, well done."

"O'Connell?"

"Yeah." Harry pulled himself back to his feet and readjusted the grip of his wand. "Looks like it. We can't know for sure until we've questioned him, but I'd say that's him."

Ron looked around the area, taking in the dark shapes of figures lying pooled across the paving stones and slumped against shop doorways. "It's over then?"

Harry nodded. "Don't worry," he said, catching Ron's glances at the wreckage around them. "They're not any of ours. All of us are still here. Most of those are Darklings."

Ron was unconvinced. "_Most_ of them? What about the rest?"

"Muggles," Harry said softly. "Seven, at last count, I think. Something needs to be done."

"I know, mate," Ron began, watching as his colleagues began to separate the slain and the injured from the Darklings, whilst two of the Healers sent in bustled around working their magic. "We'll sort something out, we'll -"

His words were stopped by the sight of Sebastian. Limping carefully towards them, his robes torn and black marks smudged across his chiselled face, he came to a rest beside the two of them and asked, "Is everyone okay?"

"All of us are fine," Harry replied, frowning slightly at Sebastian. "So far I think we've managed to catch about nine Darklings, one dead, and we've lost seven Muggles."

"Good," gasped Sebastian, his face contorting as though he was in terrible, barely-tolerable pain. "I'll go see what I can do to help the Healers."

Ron's gaze followed him as he limped away once more, taking in his carefully tousled blonde curls.

"There's something weird about that bloke," he told Harry seriously.

"Don't start with the He's-Trying-To-Steal-Hermione thing again," Harry replied. "He's _not_, for the last time."

"He couldn't now even if he wanted to, she's officially mine," Ron said quickly, biting down on his irritation at having to reveal his big news in such an offhanded way. "But that's not the point. I dunno about you but I didn't see _him_ for the whole fight, and that lasted - " - he glanced at his watch – "Well over an hour. Not even one glimpse of him. And his robes are torn, but only at the front, and none of the rips are smoking like ours are. _And _he's limping on a different leg now!"

"Yeah, that's true," Harry said pensively, mulling over Ron's words. "He does look like he's barely sweating, and yet look at us – _bathed _in it. Maybe I should talk to…" He trailed off as realisation of Ron's full comments were sank in. "Hang on, run all that by me again."

"Run all what by you?" Ron turned to face his friend, a look of confusion set into his features.

"What you just said."

"What, Sebastian?"

"Yeah, what did you say?"

"I said there's something fishy going on, I didn't see him fighting and his -"

"No, no, no," said Harry hurriedly, determined to get Ron to confirm what he thought he heard him say. "Before that. When I said about the stealing Hermione thing."

"Oh," says Ron, and he tried to stop the grin but he could feel the prickling in his cheeks. "I said he couldn't even if he wanted to."

"Why's that?" Harry asked; Ron's careful grin was maddening. "Why can't he steal her now?"

"Why do you think, idiot?" Ron said. "She's marrying me."

And then he couldn't breathe because Harry was hugging him tighter than he thought he had ever been hugged before, tight enough to crush bone, tighter even than Hermione had ever hugged him, and then the thought of her made him grin so widely he felt like his heart might just burst, and he hugged Harry back, his own laughter mingling with that of his best friend as the two of them stood in the smoking ruins of a battlefield

**~ OoOoO ~ **


	16. The Trial of Logan O'Connell

_**~ Chapter Sixteen – The Trial of Logan O'Connell~**_

**_Thursday 16th August 2001_**

_**The Ministry of Magic**_

_**Courtroom Nine**_

_**8 a.m.**_

"Mr O'Connell, you stand accused of the following charges."

The Chief Warlock, an elderly wizard with bushy white hair, stood unsteadily, holding before him a long roll of parchment that was almost as faded and crumpled as the thin hands that carried it. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses carefully before squinting at the words scratched neatly before him. He began to read the charges in the surprisingly clear and authoritative voice that only very old men seem to manage convincingly as the rest of the courtroom listened in silence, their attention snared successfully, despite the fact that this was the second day of the trial and they had already listened to many speeches, some longer and more tedious than others.

"That you did plot the deaths of innumerable innocents. That you did create and preside over an organisation devoted to attacking Muggles and the Muggle-born of the magical community. That you did terrorise the Muggle community mercilessly and without due cause. That on the fifteenth day of December 2000 you did organise the kidnapping of one Siobhan Morrison. That on the fifteenth day of December 2000 by way of this organisation you did also bring about the death of one Tristan Silvas. That on the twenty-ninth day of July 2001 you did bring about the deaths of seven Muggles by way of said organisation. That you…"

The Chief Warlock continued speaking, and throughout his speech Logan O'Connell did not react, but simply smiled wolfishly, manacled though he was to the chair. All around the room the Interrogators of the Wizengamot sat, plum-robed and grim-faced. The list of charges seemed innumerable but Harry forced himself to listen to each of them, to commit each to memory, to remember every atrocity that he had witnessed personally, despite having heard and remembered them only yesterday. Fortunately for him, today he did not need to take the stand against O'Connell, his turn having come the day before; O'Connell's vacant smile and wild eyes were extremely unsettling after only a few minutes. Beside Harry sat the Court Scribe, a thin and nervous-looking young witch with prominent teeth and enormous glasses who scribbled constantly.

"…have you anything to say for yourself before the trial continues?" ended the Chief Warlock, his voice beginning to take on a droning quality after the extensive list of charges.

Resisting the urge to drum his fingers impatiently, Harry instead fixed his attention upon O'Connell's face, noting with considerable satisfaction the faint smudge of yellow-purple bruises that mottled the skin around his cheekbones and bridged his nose from where Ron's punch landed, and reminding himself that he still owed Ron a drink for that. Not that Ron had exactly been short of drinks lately. Since the announcement of his engagement to Hermione the Weasleys seemed to have gone into full-on celebration mode. Harry didn't think he had ever seen Mrs Weasley cry so much when it wasn't because something terrible had happened.

"…then let us proceed. Would the Interrogators please rise? Thank you. If you would begin…"

The Chief Warlock sat back down, knees cracking loudly in protest. There was a collective shuffling as the Interrogators stood and then returned to their seats, settling themselves more comfortably so as to watch the proceedings. One remained standing, a tall and thin young wizard, who stepped carefully down towards the chair to which O'Connell was bound. His back was turned, so that Harry could see only the silver-white of the torchlight reflecting from his hair. His plum-coloured robes fit him loosely, as though he was unused to wearing them yet, although he moved with a kind of quiet confidence. When he spoke his voice wavered, just for the very first note, before he could regain control of it, and he spoke almost too loudly, as if to assert his authority in this place.

"The Ministry calls Lucius Malfoy."

Harry sat up as the wizard spoke, and as he turned carefully around so that Harry could see him clearly for the first time, Harry felt his jaw open slowly.

"_Malfoy?!"_

He couldn't help it. The word dropped rudely from his mouth, the slightest of whispers, and he stared with growing incredulity as he took in once more the pale shape of the face, the arrogant tilt of the jaw, the cold grey of the eyes, trying to reconcile the memories he had of Draco with the boy who stood before him now. This new Draco seemed smaller somehow, as if losing the air of arrogance and superiority had been like the shedding of a thick skin, as if he was unsure of his place in this new world yet was determined to find it for himself. He stared resolutely at the heavy doors at the end of the courtroom, and when they swung open to reveal his father, accompanied by two armed guards, Harry detected the slightest of muscle twitches in Draco's neck.

"_How_ could I not know about this?" Harry thought, staring down into the resolute grey eyes of his one-time rival. He didn't understand how he could have missed Draco's face yesterday, when he sat before the Interrogators himself and offered up his evidence, and the smallest, pettiest part of him was irritated that he hadn't been forewarned by his superiors. It was true, he grudgingly allowed, that Filkins did tell him that Lucius Malfoy had struck a deal with the Ministry - his early freedom in exchange for whatever information he could give them regarding the Darklings and Logan O'Connell, in recognition of his family's post-war efforts – and so Harry had been expecting Lucius to show up at some point during the trial. He was not, however, given even the slightest of hints that Draco Malfoy was even on the Ministry's payroll, let alone that he would be speaking during the trial. He cast the irritation aside as best he could, but he could still feel the heat of it fizzing in his stomach even as he settled himself carefully to watch the unfolding events.

Lucius was not shackled as O'Connell was, nor did he show any sign that he recognised the man manacled beside him. He stood straight-backed, still managing to retain some dignity despite his three years incarcerated, although it had to be said that they had been three years spent in relative comfort, in recognition of the actions of his family towards the end of the war. His sheet of hair was just as long and as shiny as Harry remembered, though he too seemed to have shed the air of arrogance that once clung to each Malfoy simply by heritage.

"You have names for us," Draco intoned, his voice flat and empty as a stone, as if he were controlling it rigidly. "In exchange for your freedom and the dismissal of the rest of your prison sentence you have agreed to furnish the Ministry with information. Is this true?"

Lucius nodded curtly. "It is true."

"Then proceed," Draco said stiffly, as if the pressure of interrogating his own father was already weighing too heavily upon his thin shoulders.

**~ OoOoO ~**

_**Thursday 16th**_ _**August 2001**_

_**The Burrow**_

_**Meanwhile**_

"Please, Mrs Weasley, _please_ stop crying."

Hermione's voice was vaguely amused. She and Ron told the Weasleys of their engagement the day after her parents were informed (the delay being due to the incidents of the day in question) and in the three weeks that had passed since that time, she doubted Molly had been able to look at either her or Ron for more than thirty seconds before her wide grin cracked open and the tears of happiness started again. Hermione only came to the Burrow this morning to return a borrowed book to Ginny, and for most of that time Molly appeared to be composed entirely of water and joy.

At Hermione's words Molly sniffed loudly, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief and a smile.

"I can't help it," she told her future daughter-in-law. "I'm just so happy…I can't believe my baby is all grown up and getting married."

"Excuse me," Ginny said, interrupting with some indignation. "You coped fine when Bill got married. _And_ you didn't even like Fleur that much to start with, nowhere near as much as you like Hermione! And in case you hadn't noticed, I'm actually _younger_ than Ron, so I don't think _he's_ the 'baby' anyway."

"Well, he's the youngest boy, isn't he?" Mrs Weasley smiled, waving her wand so that the potatoes bubbling on the stove stirred themselves. "And you're all my babies; even when you're old and ugly and have your own grandchildren, you'll still all be my babies."

"So I suppose that includes Bill, then?" Ginny mused, half-jokingly, watching her niece running happily around the kitchen, drunk with joy. "Even though he's married with a kid and in his late twenties?"

"Of course," Molly said, setting down a tray of freshly baked cakes, the smell of them wafting gently throughout the kitchen. "None of you are getting away from me easily."

"Well, at the very least you still have George and Charlie and Percy to mother, even after me and Ron are gone." Ginny said helpfully, gasping slightly as she bit into a hot cake and earning a mildly reproachful slap on the hand from her mother for stealing it in the first place.

"You, young lady, have only just had your twentieth birthday," Molly told her, waving her wand carefully as she did so in order to close the open garden door towards which Victoire had been determinedly toddling. "You're not going anywhere for a while."

"If I'm not going anywhere, then what do you call me already moving out?" Ginny's jaw was set firmly as she looked up at her mother, so that she looked more like the twins than usual, and Molly smiled at the thought.

"You can always move back, can't you, if anything happened?" she said softly. "Marriage is final."

There was an awkward silence, which Ginny quickly punctuated.

"Well," she said in a breezy voice. "Now that we've put a complete downer on Hermione's special day, why don't we go the whole hog and start organising the wedding now?"

"Excellent idea," Molly said, picking up Victoire as she did so, who had been walking unsteadily around the kitchen. She gently prised the saucepan lid from her grand-daughter's chubby fingers and smiled at Hermione.

"We've not even set a date yet," Hermione mumbled, half-apologetically. Neither of them seemed to have noticed the taken-aback expression on her face. "It's only been three weeks though."

"I wouldn't have a long engagement," Ginny told her, her serious expression incongruous with the faint tremble of barely-suppressed laughter in her voice. "If you don't do it quickly you might look at what you're marrying and change your mind. Ouch!"

She pulled back a hand, its knuckles smarting from the sharp tap of the spoon Molly was holding, and rubbed it, pouting slightly. Seeing Victoire watching her, she lifted her to her lap and extended the hand out to her niece, saying, "Look, Victoire, look what nasty bad Nana did to poor Auntie Ginny."

Victoire looked at the tiniest of red smears from where the spoon made contact with Ginny's hand and, screwing up her tiny round face, she told Molly with all the seriousness of a two-year-old ancient, "Bad Nana."

"That's right, Victoire, _bad_ Nana. And," Ginny continued, trying not to smirk, "All poor Auntie Ginny did was suggest that Uncle Ron isn't Mr. Handsome – ouch!" She glared at her mother in mock outrage. "What was _that_ one for?"

"For not learning your lesson the first time," Molly told her, and when Victoire extended her arms to her grandmother she took her from Ginny's lap. "And for teaching your only niece to say bad things."

Victoire took the opportunity to press a sticky and loose-lipped kiss against Molly's warm cheek, so that Molly grinned smugly at her youngest child. "So much for 'Bad Nana', Ginny."

Victoire began immediately to wriggle restlessly once ensconced in Molly's arms, fizzing with the impatient need to be on her own two feet, and as she began to kick out a little Molly carefully lowered her to the ground.

"She's a fickle little thing, isn't she?" Ginny mused, watching Victoire pick up a cleaning rag from the floor and set about scrubbing the already gleaming cupboard, babbling away to herself under her breath, before abruptly losing interest and scrambling back onto the vacant kitchen chair beside her grandmother. "Completely mad. Which means she's _definitely_ a Weasley."

"Right," Molly said, sitting down at the scrubbed kitchen table with Ginny and Hermione. "What were we saying? Oh – don't listen to Ginny, Hermione, she talks complete rubbish most of the time anyway. You have as long an engagement as you like; it's your life and your decision."

"Thank you," Hermione smiled, glancing absent-mindedly at the clock that still hung proudly on the kitchen wall. The hands that read "Arthur", "Percy", "George" and "Ron" all pointed stiffly to the word "Work" and, seeing this, Hermione yelped and pulled back her sleeve to read her watch. "Damn, I'm meant to be at work in three minutes, and I've been sitting here chatting. I'll see you later, Ginny, Mrs Weasley."

She stood abruptly and strode to the fireplace; stuffing her hand roughly into the little flowerpot that sat atop the mantelpiece she threw a handful of powder into it and with seconds her apologetic face had disappeared with a roar of flickering green flames.

Left behind, three generations of Weasley women sat pensively at the kitchen table, each lost in their own private inner monologues. Apart, that is, from Victoire, who seized this rare opportunity when her grandmother was not following her with a wary eye and an ever-present hand to slide carefully down from her little chair and toddle lurchingly towards the back garden, searching for her new-found friends the garden gnomes. It had been a fortnight but Bill had still not quite forgiven George for not noticing, whilst babysitting his little niece, that Victoire seemed to be conversing in gibberish with a small potato with legs or that her hand seemed to be moving dangerously close to the gnome's razor teeth until he heard her shrill gurgle of delight at finding such a funny-looking creature to play with and realised that she was not sitting beside him in the slick heat of an August afternoon. Since then, Victoire had made several attempts to rejoin her new friends, and despite George's comments that she would fit in with the gnome community (being rather short for her age and extremely knobbly-kneed for a girl) were it not for her shock of red hair and her mother's delicate features, the rest of her family were still rather determined that she remained a Weasley, and thus each attempt had been quickly thwarted.

On this occasion, she made it as far as the garden door, but when she stretched up, fat little hands reaching vainly for the door handle, she found herself suddenly airborne as Molly scooped her up from behind, making her gasp with laughter as she nestled herself in her grandmother's arms.

"Oh, no, you don't," Molly laughed as Victoire squeals and wriggles. "My children might get away from me but you're mine for at least the next fifteen years."

**~ OoOoO ~ **

_**Courtroom Nine**_

Draco was sweating, and it wasn't merely because of the heat of the courtroom. He could feel the slippery heat of his body sliding beneath the thick collar of his robes, and he tried not to think about the occasional unfairness of life, even though it was patently an enormous universal injustice that this should be his first trial as a fully-trained Interrogator, one which just so happened to require this interviewing of his father. And as if that weren't enough of a cosmic joke, he could feel the incredulous eyes of Harry Potter pressing firmly into the skin on the back of his neck, though he dared not look for fear of faltering. He wished he had eaten more this morning, deferring to his mother's protests. He wished another of the Interrogators would take their turn to speak, allowing him to scurry gratefully back to the dark safety of the seats behind him, but as the youngest of them it appeared that they wished to see how he would perform.

Draco straightened his back, stiffened his jaw and, stepping lightly towards the man who raised him, he slipped back into his performance.

"You say you have information for the Ministry," he told his father, and the voice that poured from his mouth was not his own, because surely his own voice was not so packed with tremors and uncertainties as this alien speech he heard now?

"True," replied Lucius. "I have names -"

"Then proceed, Mr Malfoy," called out a tall female Interrogator in a cold and impatient voice, her pale blonde hair scraped back tidily from a horsey face which would otherwise have been pretty were it not for her over-large cheekbones and slightly thin lips. Lucius smiled faux-graciously at her, the disdain emanating from him in waves; evidently, Harry decided, the arrogance was not so easily removed as he thought.

"Before the war had begun I had already begun to extract myself from the heart of the D- You-Know-Who's circle, distancing myself and my family as far as possible, though this was not easy -"

"Enough, Mr Malfoy," drawled the horse-faced Interrogator, smiling toothily in a very bored manner. "The Ministry is already aware of your efforts and has already agreed to reward you for them; we are not interested in your actions. This is not your trial."

"Of course." Lucius offered up a grin of deference to the grimly-smiling witch, but the contempt was caught in the gaps in his shining white teeth, so that the effect overall was predatory rather than apologetic. "My point was simply that I was still able to gather some information, though not as much as I might have hoped."

"And this information is…?" The pale woman was even beginning to annoy Draco now, so that he wished he had simply been left to deal with this himself, and he moved in swiftly, resuming the interrogation of the man who raised him.

"What do you know of Logan O'Connell?" he asked, his hands tightly clasped at the base of his back so as to disguise their treacherous shaking and the slick clamminess of them.

"He was a Death Eater during You-Know-Who's regime, as were Gerald Burton and Orion Finchley," Lucius replied, his back arched just as stiffly as his son's, his cool grey eyes fixed firmly on the watery blue ones of the Chief Warlock, who called out, "And how do you know this to be true?"

"As one who was part of You-Know-Who's innermost circle, I conversed with O'Connell on several occasions."

"And he was not part of the inner circle with you?" Draco asked.

Lucius affirmed this statement with a single shake of his head, making his hair ripple. "No. The inner circle was comprised of You-Know-Who's most trusted followers. Though O'Connell was indeed a Death Eater he was not one of these - "

"Lies!" screamed O'Connell, as if losing sight of where he was for a moment. He began vainly to struggle against his bindings. "All lies!"

"How do you know this?" Draco asked his father loudly, projecting his voice as neatly as he could over O'Connell's piercing cries, so that the increased volume made audible the slight tremor of nerves in his voice. "On what authority do you bring this information to us?"

"I have information from Orion Finchley, another so-called 'Darkling' who is also incarcerated, detailing many of the plots he planned to carry out in the name of one he called The First," Lucius continued, his voice louder in an effort to be heard more clearly over the protests of O'Connell. "He requested my help, which I declined."

"Finchley would not! We do not require the services of a traitor!" screeched O'Connell, spittle flying. "You have betrayed the desires of your own heart, Malfoy – you are just as black as we! You have betrayed your brothers – we, who were at one time closer than your own family – we, who stood alongside you as we carried out the Dark Lord's aims! You think that by pandering to this crowd of ill-bred traitors of blood you will be superior? You think that your past is that easily erased? By your hand a dozen filthy Muggles have been culled and yet you dare condemn me, I who alone believe in the glory of the Dark Lord's true aim, I who carry out his work, I the only true follower! I will not stand to hear these treacheries from your filthy lips! You will regret- "

There came a hoarse rasping sound as, his words plucked from the unyielding flesh of his mouth, O'Connell struggled violently to speak despite the bindings of the Silencing Charm which the Chief Warlock had seen fit to cast upon him, so that Harry could see his eyes, already slightly protuberant, glistening madly with the strength and vigour of his fury. He struggled ever more viciously against the chains that bound him tightly to the chair, mouthing obscene threats at Lucius Malfoy, who throughout the indignities heaped upon him stood proudly and erectly.

"It is true that I have committed certain…atrocities," he said, choosing his words carefully and holding his voice perfectly levelly. "None of which I am remotely proud of. And it is my hope that I have begun to make reparations for the damage I have done, the chief of these being aiding those who wish to ensure that such atrocities may never be committed again. I have heard many of the plots that this man, Logan O'Connell, intended to carry out, some of which came to fruition, from the lips of his right-hand man."

Throughout his short speech his gaze darted restlessly around the solemn faces of the Interrogators, scraping briefly and awkwardly across Harry's face, and finally resting softly upon the face of his son, and his brief almost-apology seemed to hang stiffly in the air between them. There was a wide pause, and when Draco opened his mouth to speak, the Chief Warlock stood slowly.

"I think that we have heard quite enough. We will continue in one hour. Please take Mr O'Connell away whilst we make our decision."

He clapped his hands together, signalling the break in proceedings, and two guards stepped forward and unsealed the binds around O'Connell's now red and angry-looking wrists, having first performed a Stunning Spell upon him to render him placid and yielding, before leading him away for the duration of the hour.

"Now, as for Mr Malfoy," he said, adjusting the gold-rimmed frames perched upon the narrow bridge of a very straight nose, and staring down at the quiet man before him. "You have provided us with information, as promised, some of it useful. As Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot it is my duty to inform you that your sentence is henceforth suspended and you may leave today a free man, in recognition of your help."

Lucius Malfoy did not respond but for a slight inclination of his magnificent head and a tight, "Thank you."

"However," continued the Chief Warlock in a voice that was beginning to rasp, as if the effort of sliding the dry words through his throat was becoming painful now. "Should the Ministry hear of any association you may cultivate with any kind of criminal organisation, it is still within our power to return you to Azkaban to complete the remainder of your sentence. Is this understood, Mr Malfoy?"

Draco watched as his father nodded once more and then, at a signal from the Chief Warlock, the remaining Interrogators and the watching witnesses filed slowly from the courtroom, each of them caught in rapt silence, as if to breathe overly loudly might puncture the sanctity of the dingy room. As Harry Potter passed slowly by him, one of the last to leave and with an expression of sheer bemusement shadowing his face, Draco forced himself to nod awkwardly at him, almost as if to assert his right to be here. He wasn't sure if he had been successful until Harry returned the nod with just as much guardedness, and then Draco had to try to keep his eyes from the tall boy's retreating back as Harry joined the little crowd filing almost ceremoniously from the courtroom.

Left alone with his father, truly alone for the first time in over three years, Draco did not speak at first but simply looked at Lucius for long moments, trying to decide if he looked different now that the shame of his past had been shaken off, really shaken off; trying to see whether his father stood differently, moved the jaws of his mouth differently as he worked loose his words. Suddenly, embarrassingly, Draco found that his own words had become stuck behind his tongue, so that he couldn't find the right words to say to his father now that they were able to speak freely, and so he stood awkwardly before him, sliding his fingertips over the sweat-soaked bed of his palms and watching his father carefully. Luckily for Draco, Lucius broke the silence first.

"Is your mother here?"

Contemplation of his wife's face made his voice warm; he had not been able to touch her for far too long, and the thought that she might be outside, waiting for him, was enough to send shivers of anticipation dancing along the column of his spine. Unfortunately for him, Draco shook his head carefully.

"No," he said quietly. "She's at home; she said she didn't want to come just to hear that the Ministry had changed their mind. She said she couldn't watch you being sent away from her again."

"Right," said Lucius tightly. There was another wide pause; then, "Let's go then, Draco; are you ready?"

Draco shook his head once more. "I can't come yet; I've got some paperwork to catch up on. I'll have to meet you later." This was a complete lie but Draco sensed that it would be best if he were absent for his parents' reunion. Equally, he did not particularly want to go home yet; his mind was still spinning and he needed some time alone to allow it to run flat and smooth once more. "Oh, and we don't have the mansion anymore, remember."

Lucius paused, a foot aloft in the air in preparation to leave the dungeon.

"Of course," he said softly. He glanced at his son once more, an inscrutable expression across his chiselled features, and performed an awkward kind of half-step as though moving to hug his son before deciding better of it, and then he swept elegantly from the courtroom, moving to an area where he could Apparate home to his waiting wife.


	17. Becoming Mrs Weasley

_Quick Warning – this chapter is over13,000 words long now that I've condensed it. You have been warned!_

**~ Chapter Seventeen – Becoming Mrs Weasley ~**

_**May 8th 2002**_

_**The Burrow**_

_**6.12 a.m.**_

"Mum! I can't find my corsage! MUM!"

Ginny's voice sliced easily through the already tense atmosphere of the Burrow, and at the sound of her screeching the door to her bedroom burst open. Sleep-crushed hair flying, Ginny spun to greet her mother, impressed at the speed of her response. However, instead of her mother's plump and, no doubt, highly stressed presence, Ginny was confronted by a stocky boy scarcely taller than herself, his dark red hair rumpled, who stood rubbing tired eyes with the flat of one freckled palm and yawning operatically.

"What -" George began, pausing dramatically so that Ginny might fully appreciate his words. "– in the name of Merlin's saggy left _buttock_ are you screaming about, Gin?"

"Nice mental image. Did I wake you up?"

"Of course you woke me up! You were shouting at the top of your bloody voice! I'm surprised the ghoul didn't come in and throw a shoe at you."

Ginny turned to face her brother, her hands carefully settled on her hips, and raised an eyebrow expertly. "A shoe?"

"Yeah," George answered, half-smiling at his little sister. "That's why I originally came in, hence the shoe in my hand, as you can see, but then I realised that if I killed you today of all days then I'd have to be dug up to perform my best man duties, because Mum would definitely kill me too."

"Good thinking, except for one vital detail, Georgie."

"What would that be, then, smart-arse?"

The half smile had stretched into a full, fake one now, though the sentence was broken in two by the enormous yawn that conquered his face.

"You're not best man, idiot. Harry is."

George seemed to consider this information for a few moments, before grinningly winningly at his sister. "Ah, but should some unfortunate accident befall dear Harry and leave him incapable, then, naturally, I would have to step up, wouldn't I? After all, we can't have Ronnie without a best man just because Harry can't talk or something."

Ginny folded her arms and looked hard at George. "You shouldn't have said that."

George frowned. "Why not?"

"Because if Harry _does_ have an unfortunate accident, or loses his voice, or something, then the first person I'm going to be looking for will be _you_. And then I'll definitely be down one more brother, won't I?"

He considered this less-than-subtle threat and decided, cleverly, that a change of subject was in order. "Why the banshee impression just now, anyway?"

Ginny sighed, distracted. "Have you seen my corsage? I can't find it anywhere."

"Your corsage?"

"Yes, George, my corsage!" Ginny's earlier camaraderie had given way to anxious irritability. "You know, pretty flower thing, meant to attach it to myself, vital part of my bridesmaid outfit?"

"I know what a poxy corsage looks like, Gin!"

"Oh, sorry, it must have been the completely _clueless_ look on your face that confused me."

"Very funny," George replied. "And no, I haven't seen it."

"Well, then _where_ is it?!"

He smiled, annoying her. "Gin, why are you worrying?"

"Because I need it!"

George simply looked at his sister, incredulity pasted over the fatigue.

"Ginny. Listen to me very carefully, okay?" He lifted a hand and counted off his fingers, staring at his sister. "It's six o'clock in the morning. Ron and Hermione, you know, the _important ones_, probably aren't even awake yet. You're still in your dressing gown. You've got seven hours to find it before we need to be ready. _Why_ are you panicking _now_? Unless you're actually Mum and Anti-Wrinkle Potions really work?"

Ginny smiled tightly. "I know, it's Mum's job to worry, not mine, but I definitely had it last night, it was on my cabinet, and now I can't find it anywhere."

"But you don't need it yet."

"I _know_, but I will soon."

"You've not even got the dress on yet – you're still in your pyjamas!"

"I know."

"And your hair's not been done."

"I _know_."

"Or your make-up."

"I KNOW!"

"So why are you panicking?"

"Because I need it!"

"But you don't need it _now_!"

"But I will _soon!"_

There was a pause. And then:

"Ginny?"

"George?"

"You're insane."

"Charmed, I'm sure," Ginny replied waspishly. She was about to continue grilling her brother as to the whereabouts of her corsage but just then Molly came bustling into the room, her hair askew and her face scrunched into a careful frown. In her arms she carried various collected items, each paying their own private testimony to her present state of mind, including two hairbrushes and, inexplicably, a ball of string. Her children could see the tiredness smeared around her eyes, but the smile stamped on her mouth told them not to pass comment.

"What's the matter, Ginny, dear?" she asked, her face red and flustered and contrasting rather spectacularly with her hair. "I heard you shouting."

Ginny pulled on her most innocent face with such ease and precision that George found it within himself to be impressed. "Nothing's wrong, Mum. I just stubbed my toe on my trunk, that's all."

"Are you sure?" Molly's voice held anxiety for the day ahead rather than motherly concern for once, and she shifted her position slightly, trying to make herself more comfortable in spite of the objects in her arms. "You didn't wake me up – I've been downstairs since five – but I heard you shouting. Are you sure everything's okay?"

"Positive." Ginny smiled at her mother and managed to surreptitiously draw a finger across her smiling lips, an unmistakeable signal to _shut the hell up_ intended for her brother, as she reassured her mother that nothing was amiss. "George just came in to check I was okay. _Didn't_ you, George?"

She smiled sweetly at him but he could see the tip of her carefully concealed wand behind her back and the warning glint of her eyes, and so he simply nodded at his mother.

"Okay," said Molly, seizing on any excuse to allow the day to proceed unhindered. "Well, now we're all up, we might as well get started. Come on, chop chop, no time to waste, I want everyone ready by seven-thirty; I don't want _one single hitch_ today, not _one_! I'd better go make sure everyone else is up soon, too; Catherine will be, no doubt."

With these words she bustled out of the room once more, leaving her two children standing together.

"Okay," said George after a few seconds. "Why are you being Little Miss Psychopath all of a sudden?"

"Because if Mum gets the slightest _hint_ that absolutely _anything_ isn't completely perfect today, then she's the one who's going to become Miss Psychopath, and I'm sure you'd much rather it was _me_ threatening to murder you horribly for ruining Ron and Hermione's day than Mum, right?"

"Depends," George said in mild defiance. "You're pretty violent when you want to be."

"Well, from what I've seen, so is Hermione," Ginny said languidly. "So unless you fancy your head on a pike shut up and help me find my corsage!"

~ * ~

_**May 8th**_ _**2002**_

_**Harry and Ginny's flat**_

_**7.04 a.m.**_

"_OI_!"

The weak light straining through the gaps in the curtains made Ron's eyes ache and, squinting, he groaned loudly at the voice and burrowed more deeply beneath his duvet, hoping that both the sun and the voice would simply go away. Unfortunately for him, they only intensified, and as the curtains were wrenched open light floods the living room.

"Rise and shine, beautiful," came Harry's mocking tones; Ron's face was pale and puffy with fatigue and his dark red hair was a wiry tangle of peaks and troughs all over his head. Ron glared at Harry with a little more venom than he meant to. "Stop looking at me like that and get up."

Ron stretched, still squinting at Harry who, for some inexplicable reason, was wide awake and appeared to be holding a mug of tea in his left hand. "What time is it?"

Harry checked his watch. "Just gone seven."

"_Seven?!_" Ron groaned and shuffled defiantly back beneath his duvet. "That's not even a proper time! That time shouldn't be allowed to exist, it's inhuman."

"Sorry, mate," Harry grinned and wrenched back the duvet once more, so that Ron's pale face was more visible. "Just thought you might want to get up early today. You know, seeing as it's your _wedding_ day." He emphasised the key word and waited for it to penetrate Ron's sleepy mind.

Ron returned the grin with more force than he expected to. "I know it's my wedding day, mate, I've known that for nearly a year now. But seeing as we didn't make it to bed last night until about three, and seeing as my mouth tastes disgusting because of the Firewhisky _you_ made me drink, I'm a bit busy feeling dead right now."

"And whose fault's that?"

"Yours!" Indignant, Ron sat up, trying to settle himself comfortably on the sofa. "You're the one who insisted we have a drinking contest – as if I didn't give myself enough liver damage at the stag night! And you're the one who nearly shaved my head - "

"With your permission!"

"You still wanted to shave me!"

"Whatever, let's agree to disagree," said Harry. "Now get up, drink this, and get yourself ready or we'll both be horribly murdered and personally I don't fancy it on my day _off_ work, do you?"

Ron sat up and took the proffered tea, rubbing his eyes with the flat of his palm. "Cheers."

"You're welcome. I'm going to shower; I'll see you in the kitchen in a bit."

In response Ron took a long sip of hot sweet tea and stretched his eyes open as wide as they would go in a bid to incite wakefulness.

"You know, I'd have got up in an hour anyway," he called after Harry's retreating back.

"If you hadn't I'd have tipped a bucket of water on you," Harry replied amiably, not breaking stride. "See you in a bit."

~ * ~

_**8.47 a.m.**_

The sound of Ron's surprisingly tuneful voice singing at full volume in the shower made Harry smile as he walked around the living room, tidying as he went and disposing of Ron's duvet with a casual flick of his wand. In his head he performed a mental check-list of all the things they needed to do this morning and smiled as he realised that the best was still to come. As Ron reached a particularly high note (Harry had no idea what song he was singing but it was making Ron squeak rather amusingly at times) Harry stooped to collect from the sofa the pillow he lent Ron last night, but as he moved it he stopped, noticing a flash of yellow-white beneath the dark blue cotton of the pillow. Pushing aside the pillow, he saw that the flash of yellow was a neatly folded square of parchment, a single sheet creased down the centre, and Harry's initial reaction was to pick it up, assuming it was something he had left on the sofa before offering it to Ron. But something stopped him, and as he looked closer he could read in Ron's sloping handwriting four tiny words: _Why I love her_.

Harry paused for long moments, his hand hovering tantalisingly over the parchment. Most of him, the good and honourable part of him, rebelled against the very thought that he should read it; most of him was appalled by the mere suggestion that he would even consider unfolding the parchment and reading whatever Ron had decided to write. It was the same part that would be mortified if he knew that Ron had read something like this of his, something private and personal that he had written regarding his feelings for Ginny, and it was this part that made him curl his fingers deferentially into his palm.

But still…

Harry wasn't stupid. He knew Ron loved Hermione. It was not something he'd ever really given too much thought to, but he knew it nonetheless. He'd known it for a very long time; longer than he thought even Ron had known, and certainly for longer than Hermione. Not that they ever exactly discussed it, and it was for this exact reason that Harry now itched a little to read this apparent list of reasons why Ron felt the way he did, if only so that he could know what Ron saw when he looked at Hermione that Harry never had. He slid his fingers carefully beneath the parchment, as far under as he dared, so that he cupped it in his hand, and he paused once more, his heart thudding beneath his shirt.

A particularly long and loud note from Ron startled him, making him drop the parchment once more. Checking carefully over his shoulder to make sure Ron wasn't about to burst in on him, Harry picked the sheet up once more and placed it carefully on the little table beside the sofa, concentrating on tidying the little room so that his thoughts couldn't stray to the possible contents of that note. He passed the time in this way, focussing on anything and everything that could distract him from the note.

When Ron shuffled into Harry's kitchen ten minutes later, his wet hair darker from the water it held and clinging to his head, Harry was ready for him. Hunching himself over on a stool, bundled up in his dressing-gown, Ron glared at Harry a little, shivering ostentatiously.

"Nice singing, mate," Harry told him, spooning scrambled egg onto his plate. He knew full well why Ron was staring so poisonously at him but chose for the time-being to ignore it. "You sounded like you were having fun."

Ron's cheeks reddened slightly; the glare deepened.

"If the Weird Sisters ever decide they need a male voice, they can snap you up straight away."

"Very funny."

Harry rolled his eyes, pretending finally to understand Ron's less-than-subtle meaning. "All right, all right, I get it."

"Apologise then!" Ron was indignant.

Harry held up his hands in mock defeat and said in a very slow and very insincere voice, "I'm really sorry for turning off the hot water in the middle of your shower."

"_And_…?" Ron prompted.

"And…" Harry thought for long moments but ultimately couldn't think of a single thing he might need to apologise for. "I dunno, waking you up?"

Ron reached for a piece of buttered toast and tore a bite off. "Mate, you didn't wake me up."

Harry frowned. "Yeah, I did."

Ron shook his head, chewing furiously. "Nope."

"Then why did you look like death and start whinging when I came in?"

Ron's smile was sarcastic. "Thanks. And I think you'll find that's because you opened the curtains. I didn't sleep last night."

"Why not?"

"Well, for a start, that sofa feels like it's stuffed with razor blades."

Harry grinned. "Yeah, sorry about that. But with a bit of luck that won't be a problem soon, anyway."

"Why's that?"

"I'm thinking of asking Ginny if she fancies moving to Grimmauld Place instead. Kingsley offered it back to me last week; well, the Order doesn't really need it anymore, does it? And it's not like we need a Secret Keeper for it right now anymore, either. Plus I think Kreacher might miss us a bit."

"Kreacher's still there?" Ron spluttered. "You mean, he's still alive and everything?"

"Well it might be a bit hard for him to miss us if he's dead, don't you think?" Harry grinned. "So yeah, if Ginny likes that idea then next time you stay over you won't need to sleep on the sofa; there'll be a spare room."

Ron frowned. "I thought you didn't like Grimmauld Place, though? Too many memories and all that?"

Harry shrugged. "I know, but there were some good memories too. And it's not like it used to be; circumstances are different now, aren't they? It's just an idea at the moment anyway, nothing is set in stone. Anyway, if you were already awake thanks to the crappy sofa then why did you moan that it was too early?"

"'Cos it was. And I didn't realise how long I'd been awake for – I thought it must be about nine or something. And seeing as we don't need to get there until about two, I thought it was bit anti-social of you to wake me up at _seven sodding a.m_."

"So if you weren't sleeping then what were you doing all last night?"

"Stuff," Ron said evasively. Harry raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"_Stuff?"_

"Yeah." Ron paused for a moment as if collecting the words, chewing a particularly large bite of toast as he did so. "I was thinking about things, you know?"

"I love it when you're vague about things," Harry said sarcastically. "It makes me so happy trying to translate everything you say."

"Welcome," Ron said, swallowing. "I was writing something, if you must know."

"Oh, that reminds me," Harry said, thinking that now was as good a time as any. He got up and walked into the living room, returning seconds later with his fist closed tightly around something. "I found this when I was tidying up."

He deposited the contents of his palm onto the kitchen counter, and Ron simply looked down at the little note, slowly chewing.

"Did you read it?" he asked carefully, no trace of hostility in his casual tone.

"No," Harry said instantly, before kicking himself mentally; did it sound suspicious that he answered so quickly? Even though he _didn't_ read it?

"Sure?"

"Positive. Why would I read it?"

Ron shrugged and lifted a steaming spoonful of scrambled egg to his mouth. "It doesn't matter if you did."

"I didn't read it, Ron, I wouldn't do that."

"I don't mean that, mate," Ron corrected, still sounding amiable. "I just meant that you're gonna hear what it says later today anyway, so it doesn't really matter if you read it or not. I was gonna ask you to look over it anyway."

"I don't understand…"

"Look," Ron said, putting down his fork and reaching for the note. He unfolded it and placed it back down, smoothing it flat against the table surface. "They're my vows, see? Hermione wanted us to write our own, remember? So even if you did read them, you were gonna know what that note said later on today anyway, so it doesn't matter if you did read it. That's what I was doing last night – finishing them off."

"You hadn't _finished_?" Harry couldn't keep the note of incredulity from his voice.

"Of course I'd finished," Ron told him. "But I kept reading them back and they didn't sound right. They just sounded really soppy and clichéd, and fake, and I knew she wouldn't believe them for a second. I didn't believe them myself. So I stayed up all last night and rewrote them all."

There was a long and slightly awkward pause as the two boys each fought with themselves over the words they wanted to say; Ron was the first to break the silence, directing his comments to Harry whilst staring resolutely and with extremely red cheeks at his coffee cup.

"Will you…you know, look over them for me? Just to make sure they don't sound sad or like I'm a complete twat." He lifted his eyes to his friend at last. "I mean, you don't have to if, you know, it's too weird or whatever…"

"It's okay," Harry told him, feeling odd without knowing quite why. "I'll have a look if you're sure you want me to."

Ron smiled. "I'm sure. I'll go get dressed – you can read them while I get ready."

Now that he had Ron's express permission, Harry wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know what the note said anymore. He watched Ron's retreating back and then glanced down at the neatly folded note on the table, wondering what Ron would have chosen to write about. After all, it was not just his best friend's feelings he was going to be reading. It was a note explaining his feelings for Harry's _other_ best friend, and for once Harry wished that Ron was marrying some almost anonymous girl, so that he wouldn't have to feel awkward about reading his vows. Suddenly, he didn't _want_ to know what made Ron's feelings for Hermione so different from Harry's. Trying to shrug off the odd sensation of spying, Harry reached for the little note and carefully unfolded it…

~ * ~

_**The Burrow**_

_**12.18 p.m.**_

"Hermione, hold still or I can't do it – just stop moving your head!"

Catherine's voice held mild impatience – she couldn't, after all, snap at her daughter on her wedding day, but she was still incapable of disguising it fully – and Hermione tutted irritably, pulling her dressing-gown closer around her.

"Well, stop trying to scalp me then, Mum!"

Catherine paused in her actions. "I'm trying to make your hair look nice!" She resumed untying the knots in Hermione's hair, so carefully applied last night, so that her hair tumbled around her face in controlled, sleek curls.

"I still don't understand why you couldn't have let Mrs Weasley do this by magic. It would have saved us at least an hour."

"Because, young lady," Catherine said, undoing the final knot and allowing it to fall. "Not everything needs to be fixed with magic. And just because I'm not a witch, doesn't mean I can't do my daughter's hair on her wedding day. There! Done. Now you can stop moaning at your poor dear mother who only wants to help."

"Oh, stop it," Hermione said, admiring her reflection in the mirror. "Thank you. Now I just need Ginny to apply my make-up and I can get dressed. Where's Dad?"

"Downstairs."

"Doing what?"

"I don't know, Hermione. I think he's explaining how his dentistry drill works to Ron's father again – he does get a bit excited when we talk about gadgets and things, doesn't he?"

Catherine's voice held mild bemusement and Hermione smiled. "It's the wizarding thing. He's fascinated by anything Muggles have that wizards don't."

"Ah, I see. Well, I'll leave you and Ginny to it – Molly probably needs some help setting everything up."

"Good luck with that," said Ginny, walking into the room, carrying a little quilted bag with her. "When my brother Bill got married she nearly ate the head of anyone who tried to help her. Ready, Hermione?"

Hermione nodded and waved goodbye to her mother over her shoulder. Ginny opened her bag to reveal a vast assortment of tubes, pots, tubs, and brushes of varying sizes. Hermione gaped.

"Do you really wear all _that_?"

Ginny tutted. "Of course not, silly. Just some of it."

Hermione smiled. "Does Harry know you don't actually look like that then?"

"Well, if he hasn't realised I'm all scaly underneath my clothes by now, then he's probably never going to," Ginny laughed. "No, I don't actually wear half of that, it's just for show. Now stop talking and let me paint you!"

"You're the boss," Hermione told her, and Ginny quickly got to work.

"I've just thought of something," Ginny said suddenly after a few minutes.

"What's that?"

"In a few hours, you're going to be my sister-in-law. Weird, right?"

Hermione nodded. "I suppose so."

"I can't believe how quickly today has come," Ginny continued as she worked. "Close your eyes – don't open them 'til I say so. It still feels like forever ago that you told me you were even together, let alone getting married."

Hermione cracked an eye open. "It feels like forever ago that I even _met_ Ron, never mind got together with him."

"I said _close your eyes!_" Ginny shrieked, brandishing a brush. Hermione quickly obeyed. "You'll ruin all my hard work. Does it feel weird?"

"Well, it's a bit cold -"

"Not the _make up_, you idiot. Getting _married_."

"Oh. I don't know, I've not got married yet. I'll let you know when it starts."

"Wow," said Ginny. "A joke, from you. There's something I don't get to hear much."

"First time for everything, right?" Hermione smiled. "And no, I don't think it's weird, really. Do you?"

"Not really. It was kind of inevitable though," Ginny said, spreading some kind of very cold liquid across Hermione's cheeks. "You can open your eyes now, by the way."

"What do you mean, 'inevitable'?"

"Oh, come on, Hermione," Ginny replied. "It's been pretty obvious for a while. Years, even."

"Obvious how?"

Ginny sighed. "Honestly, how many times do I need to say it – I'm his _sister_. I also happen to be your friend and not completely clueless. Do you honestly think I never noticed all the looks you used to give each other when you thought no one was looking – _including_ the person they were aimed at? Or the fact that whenever I spoke to either of you, you both seemed to find _some_ way of bringing the other person up, however randomly it was? I could have told you seven years ago the way this was all going to end up. It's just you two who were too blind to see it."

"Okay, okay, point taken," Hermione told her. "It's just a bit weird to be told it was inevitable, that's all."

"What's weird about that?" Ginny replied, frowning in concentration. "I think it's nice. I'd love it for someone to say that to me on my wedding day; that they always knew I'd end up marrying him."

"Who's _him_?" Hermione asked, lightly teasing. Ginny pulled a face.

"You know what I mean," she said. "So yeah, I don't see what's weird about it."

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know, it just…when you put it like that it kind of feels like I didn't have a choice, like it was all just decided for me, I don't like that idea."

Now it was Ginny's turn to shrug. "More romantic that way, though, surely? Fate and all that?"

"I'm not into romance, Ginny," Hermione said seriously. "I never have been. And I'd still like to think that I'm marrying Ron because I want to, not because it's fate and I don't have a choice. I don't believe in fate; I believe in what's real and what's true, and what I can see right in front of me, even if it takes me a while to see it in the first place. Do you know what I mean?"

Ginny shrugged once more. "Whatever makes you happy. Right, that's your make-up done now, shall we get dressed then?"

"Sounds good to me," Hermione replied, and moved to stand up.

"Don't you want to see how it looks?" Ginny asked, a look of puzzlement across her pretty face.

Hermione shook her head. "No. I want to look when it's all finished."

~ * ~

_**12.56 p.m.**_

Molly and Catherine sat together at the kitchen table, each quietly buzzing and each privately wondering what it could possibly be that was taking their respective daughters so long to come downstairs. Beside them sat Arthur and Robert, the two of them lost in a conversation about Mr Weasley's collection of plugs and Robert's offer of a couple more to add to it. George stood leaning casually against the kitchen counter, talking to Charlie, who sat on top of it, having arrived an hour ago from Beijing where he was currently working on a Chinese Fireball conservation site.

"How long have we got?" Catherine asked, and Molly paused, thinking.

"Well, it's all being set up in the orchard as you've seen, that's where my eldest son got married, and that should all be finished by now, so we just need to wait for the girls to be ready. What time are you expecting your sister?"

"Rebecca should be arriving within the next forty minutes."

"And she's bringing her family?" Molly didn't mean to sound so precise, but she needed to know, for her own sanity.

"Yes – her husband and children, but that's the only family who'll be coming. Robert's an only child and all our parents are dead."

"I'm sorry to hear that,"

Catherine flapped a hand. "Oh, don't be silly, it all happened years ago."

"Do they know...you know, that we're magical?" Molly tried to phrase it tactfully before giving up and simply saying the words.

Catherine smiled. "Not yet. We've always told them Hermione goes to a prestigious boarding school – she's always been very intelligent and hard-working, so they didn't question it. Now they're going to find out just _how_ prestigious the school is!"

Molly frowned slightly; she couldn't help it. "Why didn't you just tell them what she was? Would they have been ashamed? Plenty are, you know."

"Oh, not in the slightest – and we weren't ashamed, either," Catherine added pointedly, in case Molly got the wrong idea. "Robert and I couldn't have been prouder of her, but she didn't want them to know. I don't know why. She asked us to keep it quiet in her first year – she was getting bullied a bit and she didn't want her whole family to know, bless her, and by the time she was settled in at Hogwarts I think she just felt it was a bit late to tell them."

Molly recognised the faint note of pride that trembled momentarily in Catherine's voice as she talked about her child by the fact that it had painted her own voice countless times over the years, and she smiled at Catherine and nodded. Thinking of her own children made her glance at the clock on the wall habitually, as she did thirty or forty times a day, her eyes lingering for that fraction of a second longer than usual on the ninth long thin hand, the one bearing Fred's name; the one pointing permanently at the words _The Hereafter_ ; the one that still made a film of tears settle over her eyes. She blinked it away carefully and focused her attention on her second child instead, who had stopped talking to his brother momentarily and was looking strangely at her. Noticing her newly sparkling eyes, Charlie frowned slightly at his mother.

"You okay, Mum? You look sad."

Molly smiled tightly. "I'm fine, Charlie, just thinking about things. How's China, anyway – are you enjoying it more than Romania?"

Charlie returned the smile, though his eyes were narrowed, testament to his displeasure at his mother's uneasy lie. "Oh, it's great, Mum, nice and hot. It's been a bit difficult trying to persuade the Chinese government that we need to protect the dragons, though – they use them in medicine a lot. The price of a Fireball talon or a few scales is unbelievable, and that's not even going into the value of an egg; we have to be really careful about who we hire in case anyone tries to make a profit out of it."

"You – you work with _dragons_?" Catherine asked before she could stop herself. Hermione had never mentioned dragons to them. Then again, when she thought about it, there was probably rather a lot about the magical world that Hermione had never mentioned to her parents. She didn't know whether to be grateful or mildly annoyed. "You mean dragons are really real?"

George nodded at her. "Yeah. This nut job loves them – he'd have one as a pet if he could."

"Then, why haven't I ever seen one?"

Charlie, scenting the chance to talk about his first love, took over before George had the chance. "Because every so often they like to eat humans, and they're getting a bit rarer, so we have to make sure that their homes are protected and that there's as small a chance as possible that they're going to fly down to heavily populated areas. The only one native to Britain is the Welsh Green anyway and as you don't live in Wales you're really unlikely to have seen one, although you -"

"I think she gets the picture, Charlie. Tell her about that Felix bloke," George broke in, looking sideways at Catherine. By now the rest of the kitchen was listening.

"Oh yeah - just last week we found Felix Honeychurch – remember him, Mum, the one I went to school with? - with terrible burns to the side of his face where he'd tried to steal a Fireball egg and the dragon caught him. We've had to modify his memory so he can't reveal the location of the site to anyone and then pack him off to get treatment, it was really disgusting, the state of his face. We had to make up a cover story for the Healers and everything."

Catherine's face had turned a pale shade of green, and so Mrs Weasley broke in, sensing her chance.

"Have you met anyone out there, Charlie?" she asked. She phrased it casually but immediately Charlie's defences slammed up.

"If you mean have I made _friends_ out there, Mum, then yes I have. If you mean is there going to be another _wedding_ for you to plan any time soon then I'm afraid the answer is a big fat NO."

"I didn't mean that, actually, but now that you mention it-"

"Oh, Mum, can't you just drop it, just for today, and focus on the son that _is_ getting married?"

"You're nearly thirty, Charlie – surely you've found _some_ nice girl in all that time?"

Molly's voice was almost pleading, but Charlie wasn't going to succumb to it. He folded his tanned arms carefully and paused before he spoke, as if collecting his words and knowing that calmness was all that would speak to his mother.

"I've found plenty of perfectly nice girls, Mum; just none that have made me want to settle down. It's too much to give up – I'm happy with my dragons. I have been for the last decade nearly; I can't see me changing my mind any time soon."

"May I have your attention, please? Presenting the soon-to-be newest member of the Weasley family - Hermione Granger."

Molly had opened her mouth to protest at her son's positively anarchic words but the sudden sound of her daughter's voice made her pause, and then the sight she now saw in the doorway left it hanging open, the words sliding uselessly back down her throat in utter silence.

Ginny stood there, the deep red of her bridesmaid's dress somehow accentuating the vibrant tone of her hair, worn tousled and swept over her slim shoulders, rather than clashing with it. Behind her, Hermione stood slightly awkwardly in her wedding dress, which no one in the kitchen besides Ginny had seen before now. The long ivory material clung flatteringly to her body and made her shining dark hair seem even glossier against it, and she smiled nervously at the onlookers. Her skin was cream and roses and looking at her then Molly thought she had never seen a bride with so little reason to feel insecure.

"Ready?" Hermione said, noting the way her mother burst into tears at the sight of her and trying to avoid the direct gaze of everyone in the kitchen.

**~ OoOoO ~**

_**8th May 2002  
The Orchard  
1.27 p.m**_

The sound of gravel skittering over the makeshift driveway in the Weasleys' haphazard front garden sent Molly and Catherine scurrying to the window to see who was outside, each tugging at the skirts of their dresses so as not to let them be scuffed along the flagstones of the kitchen. Outside in the driveway, a tall black-haired man unfolded himself from the large blue car parked there, looking around confusedly and holding a scrap of paper in his hands, frowning at it in consternation.

"Who's that?" Molly mumbled, matching the tall man's confused frown.

"That's Michael – my brother in law," Catherine said, and she moved to the front door quickly, before he decided that he had brought his family to the wrong place and got back in the car again. She reached the edge of the driveway just as her sister climbed from the car to join her perplexed husband.

"Rebecca!"

At the sound of the familiar voice, Rebecca turned her head, her silky blonde curls shining in the sunlight, and when she saw her sister standing at the other end of the driveway she let out a bubble of laughter and ran to embrace her.

"Oh, Kitty, it's been so long, far too long!" Rebecca's voice was muffled slightly as she pressed her face to her little sister's shoulder. "We've barely seen you since you came back from Australia."

Shortly after performing the Memory Charms that would keep her parents safe for over a year, Hermione had drafted a Polyjuice Potion containing one of her mother's hairs, one which tasted faintly of strawberries, and informed her aunt that 'Catherine' and Robert would be having an extended holiday in Australia. Since then, Rebecca and Michael had been under the impression that Catherine and Robert spent that year backpacking all over Australia before running out of money and returning home, where they promptly moved house, citing a 'change of scenery' as the reason they now lived in Ottery St. Catchpole.

"Come on, Ruari, Briony," she called over her shoulder, as Michael walked towards the two sisters, a smile of greeting across his handsome face. "Get out of the car and come and say hello to Auntie Kitty."

"Hello, Kitty, how have you been?" Michael kissed Catherine's cheek warmly. "We weren't sure if we had the right place."

"Oh, we've been great, everything's been really good," Catherine replied. "Hermione's just inside - she can't really come out yet, she'll spoil her dress."

"Grand," replied Michael, his smile stretching wider than usual, before noticing Molly in the doorway. "And who's this?"

Catherine glanced over her shoulder. "Ah, that's Molly, she's Hermione's soon-to-be mother-in-law, lovely woman but she's a bit stressed today. Right, before we – ah, hello, you two!" Catching sight of her niece and nephew she paused speaking and grabbed each of them in a tight one-armed hug. "How've you both been? And how's school?"

"Fine," Ruari, eighteen and the eldest of the two, murmured it nonchalantly, and Catherine got the impression that this was the stock answer to both questions. Narrowing his dark green eyes as the sunlight poured into them he looked up at the Burrow's seven stacked floors and its uneven structure; at the chickens penned away and scratching at the dirt in their run, and muttered, "Weird house."

Briony, two years younger, was a little more forthcoming than her brother, her long black hair shining in the sunlight as she began chattering to her aunt about her life, her school, her friends, her cat, and quite probably quantum physics for all Catherine knew; the girl's excited chatter was so heated and so rapid that the words tumbled into one another until all that Catherine could hear is unintelligible babble.

Eventually Catherine held up a hand to silence her excitable niece and said in a serious tone, "Right, before we go in, there is something you should all know, just so there are no huge surprises after this and everything can go more smoothly. So I want you to listen very carefully, all of you, and believe me when I tell you that it's absolutely true."

"What's that, Kitty?" Rebecca asked, a look of faint amusement on her face, before adding jokingly, "Is Hermione really an alien or something, is that it?"

"Close, but not quite," Catherine responded, inwardly kicking herself for somehow managing to imply that her daughter was extraterrestrial. Not wanting to dress the situation up in any way, she simply said it. "She's a witch."

"Oh, my friend Kayleigh is a witch, she says you're meant to say Wicca though, but she doesn't really do magic, it's all candles and healing and stuff –"

"No, no, not like a white witch," Catherine said hurriedly, cutting off Briony's chatter. "I've discussed this with Hermione and she wanted me to tell you rather than her try to do it. She wasn't at Piedmont School of Excellence while she was studying, and she's not working in the government now – well, not the main government."

Rebecca frowned, unsure whether her sister had gone mad and knowing that Catherine wasn't prone to extended flights of fancy, and certainly not ones that required the involvement of her family. Michael, Ruari and Briony all alternated between extreme confusion and utter bewilderment. Catherine closed her eyes and took a deep breath, aware she was making very little sense to them and trying to order her thoughts in a way that they might comprehend.

"She's been at a specialist school, but it's called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and it's for children with magical abilities – for witches and wizards. Hermione got the letter when she was eleven, and now she works at the Ministry of Magic – like the government, only it's magical. I know it sounds absolutely insane and I promise you I'm not drunk, on drugs, or the new member of a cult; it's all completely true."

By now Ruari was looking positively terrified, as did his sister and mother, but it was Michael who spoke first, his gentle Irish lilt flavouring his words. "So, what you're trying to tell us is that Hermione…has magic powers? And there are more people like that?"

Catherine nodded. "Millions, all over the world. It's all hidden away – a lot of non-magical people don't seem to take kindly to the idea. And I'm telling you now because Hermione didn't want anyone but Robert and I to know before, but now that she's getting married she wanted everything out in the open. The boy she's marrying, Ron, is from a lovely family – all of them magical – and we agreed it would be best to tell you so that you don't panic or anything."

"So, why is Hermione a witch and I'm not?" Briony asked, taking to the idea quickly. Ruari simply stared at his younger sister, incredulous.

"I don't know," Catherine said honestly, surprising herself with her own ease of knowledge of the subject. "Apparently after generations of non-magical relatives, a baby can easily be born that way; there's usually a magical ancestor buried far back in the family tree. Seeing as Hermione's the only one we've heard of in our entire family, I'd say the ancestor was likely on Rob's side of the family, but as they're all either dead or distant, we can't exactly ask. Are you all okay? You're taking this very well…"

Rebecca smiled weakly at her little sister. "I think it's something I'll need to see before I believe it, that's all."

Catherine returned the smile more firmly. "Well, let's do that now, shall we? And you can meet the Weasleys. Come on. Although I should warn you – the clothes they're wearing may look a bit strange at first, but that's just normal to them."

The little party trooped back towards the Burrow, Catherine in front so that, as she passed Molly, she could drop in her ear the words, "I've told them; now it's time for proof."

"Ah, you must be Rebecca – and Michael," Molly said, playing the part of genial hostess to perfection. "And Ruari and Briony, Catherine's told me a lot about all of you – now come inside and sit yourselves down; it must have been a long drive from Somerset – North Petherton, is it? Ah yes, that's where Catherine tells me she and Robert originally lived. I'll get the kettle on, shall I?"

She managed to take their coats and usher them into the kitchen as she talked, trying to make them feel welcome and remove the expressions of utter bewilderment on their faces. However, as soon as they entered the kitchen the expressions were fixed more firmly as they took in the sight of the broom in the corner, charmed to sweep the dust from the flagstones, and of George and Charlie bewitching two overgrown cooking apples to fly at each other above the table, making the airborne fruit duel.

"Right," said Catherine bracingly, lifting her hand to point at each person. "Everyone, this is my sister Rebecca, her husband Michael, and their kids Ruari and Briony. Guys, this is Ron's dad Arthur, you know Robert of course, Ron's brothers George and Charlie, Ron's sister Ginny, his mum Molly, and obviously Hermione."

"Hi, Auntie Becca, Uncle Michael," came a quiet voice, and Rebecca and Michael looked up in time to see a vision in a white dress standing before them. Hermione looked breathtaking and entirely unrecognisable from the awkward, bushy-haired girl who stood nervously in their home four summers ago, when they last saw her. "Did – did Mum tell you?" she asked them now, uncertain. "You know…what I am?"

"She did that," Michael answered when his wife could not. "She did that."

"Do you believe her?" Hermione asked timidly, and Catherine knew instinctively that when she asked 'do you believe her' she was really asking 'do you believe _me_', and, by extension, 'do you care?' She itched to place a protective arm around her daughter's shoulders, so that if she crumpled Catherine could still hold her together the way she did when Hermione was a little girl, but she refrained, knowing this wouldn't help matters, and instead she contented herself with looking hard at her sister, thinking of all the ways she could make Rebecca regret doubting Hermione if she tells her 'No' and upsets her on her wedding day.

Rebecca, however, nodded vigorously, as did Michael and Briony, but Ruari merely frowned a little at his older cousin, the cool disdain for such an obvious lie spread across his angled features. Catching sight of this, Ginny felt her cheeks colour a little, and she stepped forward, brimming with quiet indignation that Hermione should have to prove herself to this little fool. Pulling her wand from her dress she pointed it squarely at the dark-haired boy, saying casually as she did so, "Well, just in case you don't…"

There was a pause, the space between heartbeats, while Ruari stared at the attractive red-haired girl in front of him, unsure whether to laugh, disarmed by her unexpected prettiness, and as he opened his mouth, Ginny strikes.

"_Vox Vocisus!"_

"_Ginny!" _Molly's outraged voice was a warning to her young daughter, and she immediately moved to lift her wand and perform the counter-charm, but George, next to her, covertly pulled back her arm.

"Leave it, Mum," he muttered in a voice so quiet as to be barely heard. "He's another one like Harry's cousin – he needs to learn the hard way. And it's not hurting him."

Nothing happened, as far as Ruari could see it, and he felt the laughter in his throat breaking free with relief, looking around the kitchen at the assorted faces as he did so, but the laughter that bubbled from his chest didn't sound like his laugh; it _wasn't _his laugh; it wasn't even human; and so Ruari attempted to cough, believing that he was grunting and snorting because of some trapped grit or mucus in his throat, but every splutter was more and more porcine, and he wheezed slightly, panicking, so that he let out one long squeal, and the laughter of everyone else in the kitchen roared in his ears as he stared desperately down at his hands, convinced he would be confronted with cloven hooves; even his cousin Hermione, always so strait-laced, was finding it in her to laugh, and just before Ruari lost control and began trying to shout in his piggy voice at the assembled people before him, Ginny caught Hermione's eye and nodded once.

Hermione lifted her wand languidly. "_Vox Humanis!"_ she cried, and Ruari stopped spluttering instantly, instead gasping slightly as Michael, quick to recover from the sight of his son squealing like a pig, clapped his back, chuckling heartily.

"Believe it now?" Ginny asked, a smile on her lips, and even through his humiliation Ruari couldn't find it in him to scowl at her, so beguiling was her smile. Stepping forward he stumbled slightly on the bottom of his trousers, somehow managing to step on one, and as he grabbed at the table for support he managed to knock a saucer from it, sending it crashing to the ground, and Hermione flicked her wand at it, hardly looking as she muttered "_Reparo_" and setting it neatly back upon the table.

Beside her, Rebecca and Michael's mouths hung open in utter incredulity; Briony merely looked as though she couldn't decide whether she was more impressed at this display of magic or indignant that it was her elder cousin who was gifted this ability rather than her.

"I know – that was my reaction the first time I saw it too," Robert said, pausing in his conversation with Arthur, which had now, inexplicably, turned to tax disc holders for cars. "But you get used to it after a while. Impressive, don't you think?"

"Though there were _other_ ways of displaying your magic than that charm, Ginny," Molly said disapprovingly. "Now, apologise, please."

"Sorry for making you talk like a pig," Ginny told Ruari, sounding utterly sincere, though the corners of both George and Hermione's mouths twitched slightly. "I won't do it again."

Molly smiled satisfactorily and turned to Catherine, wondering aloud where Ron and Harry could have got to, or Percy for that matter, as Charlie reassured Rebecca that the spell Ginny performed wouldn't have any lasting effects on Ruari; Arthur returned to his conversation with Robert, this time joined by Michael, and began explaining excitedly about his old Ford Anglia; Ginny, unseen by her mother, winked surreptitiously at Hermione; and Ruari, watching her, couldn't seem to breathe normally, without knowing why.

At a sudden loud knocking on the front door, everybody jumped, including Catherine who was standing behind Hermione, fussing over her hairstyle. Charlie slid casually from the kitchen counter and strode to the front door, his dress robes flapping at his ankles. He pulled it open and was confronted by a skinny black-haired boy, also in dress robes, and looking a little flustered.

"All right, Harry?" Charlie said pleasantly, as though nothing whatsoever was amiss about Harry's appearance. Harry nodded.

"Is everyone still inside?"

"Yeah," Charlie looked over Harry's shoulder, poking his head out of the doorway and looking around. "Where's Ron?"

"Round the corner," Harry said. "Just in case Hermione answered the door – superstition, you know."

"Ah, in case she takes one look and realises what she's agreed to do, and runs off screaming into the distance," Charlie said mockingly, shaking his head in fake solemnity.

"Very funny," Harry told him, impatient. "Can you just tell everyone we're here and we're just about ready? We kind of need to use the house quickly first. Or rather, _Ron _does."

He looked meaningfully at Charlie, hoping the older man would catch his drift, and to his relief, Charlie nodded sagely.

"The, uh…_facilities_?"

"Exactly."

"No problem," Charlie said, looking back over his shoulder to check no one was coming down the hallway, and lowering his voice. "Give me five minutes and I should have everyone in the orchard. But you need to be up there another five or ten minutes after that, or Mum will literally go mad. You know what she's like."

"Deal," replied Harry, already turning to walk back to where Ron was hiding, crouched behind Michael's car, pulling his dress robes up slightly so that they didn't trail in the dirt and dust and looking rather disconcertingly as though he was already 'using the facilities', as it were, something Harry commented on immediately.

"Oh, shut up, smart arse," Ron replied acidly, standing with a stoop so that he could see part of the Burrow but not wishing to be noticed by anyone coming out. "Are they going?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "So you can stop dancing in about five minutes."

"Thanks, mate," Ron said. "I though I'd be alright but I don't think Hermione would have been impressed if I was hopping around while she was trying to be all serious and romantic."

"Nah," agreed Harry. "But you'd have given me and your brothers a good laugh."

**~ OoOoO ~**

_**The Orchard  
2.27 p.m.**_

By now the guests had started to arrive and began congregating beneath the enormous marquee that had been erected in the orchard. In the time since Bill and Fleur stood beneath the silk-wrapped trees and spoke their vows, Molly's determination to create 'the perfect wedding' seemed to have increased, motivated, perhaps, by the fact that her own wedding was, by necessity due to the oncoming war, a rushed affair. Though the ceremony itself was not scheduled to take place for another thirty-three minutes, she was continually rushing from person to person, greeting them somewhat manically even after Charlie and George had shown them to their seats, and constantly flicking her wand so as to ensure that no candle was extinguished; no lantern was unlit; no seat in the marquee was unfilled.

Thus far, it had to be said that the wedding was already running more smoothly than Bill's had been. For one thing, Hagrid had managed to find his magically reinforced seat without crushing any of the delicate silver ones lined in neat rows for the other guests in the process. For another, this marriage was rather less likely to be interrupted by the sudden ominous arrival of a Patronus.

Neville sat towards the middle of the rows, hand-in-hand with Hannah Abbott, his grandmother seated to his right, and Luna and Xenophilius Lovegood to the left of Hannah. Speckled here and there amongst the innumerable red heads of Weasley relatives the guests included Kingsley Shacklebolt, talking earnestly to Jeremy Filkins, Head of the Auror Department; Andromeda and Teddy, now four years old and wriggling impatiently in his seat; Bill and Fleur, three-year-old Victoire perched on her lap with ribbons in her dark blonde hair; Kestrel Jones, looking extremely happy to be sitting beside Sebastian who was looking less than ecstatic to be sitting beside a rapidly-chattering woman and who was there only because Hermione insisted that he be invited; Catherine and Robert sat at the front of the rows, beside the chairs which would contain Molly and Arthur shortly, Ron's various siblings helping to make up the rest of the front row, though Auntie Muriel had been strategically placed (by Ron) to sit between Sebastian and Viktor Krum (who was also there by request of Hermione, much to Ron's irritation); Percy and the thin and serious looking girl he introduced to everyone as "my _partner_, Audrey" (thereby inspiring hope in Molly, who was already feverishly planning in her mind the next big Weasley wedding, especially since George and Charlie didn't seem exactly forthcoming), who sat side by side, laughing quietly over some shared joke; and various Hogwarts alumni alongside several of Ron and Hermione's colleagues. George, denied any attractive Veela cousins to 'assist' on this occasion (or indeed any cousins, since at sixteen Briony was approximately eight years younger than George and Hermione's only remaining cousin was a rather surly eighteen year old boy) was looking around the crowded marquee, clearly in search of some new fixation.

Hermione was hidden away in a smaller tent outside the marquee, nervously reading and re-reading her vows and muttering the words furiously under her breath, awaiting the signal that things were about to begin. From time to time she glanced down at her wrist to check the time on the little silver watch her father gave her for her seventeenth birthday, the last birthday before she sent them away, and the watch which she fell asleep looking at on several nights whilst on the run. Registering the time yet again, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. In precisely twenty-six minutes, everything was going to change, right down to her very name. They'd had lengthy discussions over it, she and Ron, wrangling good-naturedly over whether she would take a double barrel name or simply become Mrs Weasley, and whether, if she did take a double barrel name, _Granger_ should come before or after _Weasley_. She couldn't decide which she would prefer, because surely they should come together, as equals?

She sat for long moments, her eyes gently closed, thinking about everything and nothing at all. Images of Ron at various stages drifted across her mind; eleven years old and with a dirty nose, poking his rat with his wand and scowling at her; fourteen years old and happily cooing over tiny Pigwidgeon as the train wound its way back to Kings Cross; fourteen again and quietly thinking she couldn't see the stares he cast in her direction at the Yule Ball; sixteen and fighting Death Eaters in the Ministry; eighteen years old, and having returned after leaving her and Harry, taking every single strike she aimed at him for it with a half-smile on his face; eighteen years old, fighting for his life and his freedom and insisting that the house elves be given the chance to escape, destroying any semblance of inhibitions she might have held with those words.

She thought of the moment she knew it was him; at fourteen years old and wondering why he hadn't asked her to the Ball yet, and then getting upset that when he did ask her it wasn't for the reason she wanted it to be for. She thought of the first time she kissed him; how she hadn't expected to have to be the one who would initiate it; how she was glad that she was; how he tasted differently to the way she had imagined it; how having his arms slotted around her felt strangely new, even though he had hugged her a thousand times before that moment. She thought of the faint quicksilver scars on his body that she could trace by memory alone - the silvery lines left by the brains aged sixteen, the long curve bisecting his chest from his fight against the Darklings, the faint V-shapes that peppered his forearms as he tried to protect himself from her bird-attack – and how his courage and integrity was written in the seam of every single one. As she thought of these things she smiled, the grin cracking open wider and wider with every fresh memory, and taking her notes firmly in her hands she tore them neatly in two, then four and eight, and throwing them in the air she let the little jagged pieces fall over and around her like confetti, her eyes tightly closed, and smiling joyfully at the realisation that she would not need this piece of paper to say what was in her heart.

The swishing sound of the door to the little tent being pulled aside caused her to open her eyes and turn her head, perfectly serenely, to see who was there. Ginny stood there, pulling at her beautiful red dress so as not to let it trail in the grass, the sun shining against the back of her head and making her hair glow.

"Are you ready?" she asked. "Everyone's seated now; we're just waiting for you."

"I'm ready," Hermione said, knowing as she said the words that they were the truest words she had never spoken. She stood carefully, smoothing her ivory gown and brushing away fragments of her vows as she did so. Noticing them, Ginny frowned a little.

"What's that?"

"Nothing," Hermione told her. "Just something I thought I needed. Shall we go?"

She took Ginny's arm and together they made their way to the back of the enormous marquee, where Molly, Arthur, Catherine and Robert stood, waiting for the ceremony to begin. Seeing them both, Molly gave a little jump, and, kissing them both on the cheek, asked, "Ready?"

Hermione nodded and arm in arm Molly and Arthur walked down, smiling at the guests as they went, swiftly followed by Catherine, who planted a tearful kiss on her daughter's cheek, before all three took their seats. Beautiful strains of music seemed to sound from nowhere, as if the stars themselves were playing for her; the marquee fell silent, and Robert felt for Hermione's hand and gave it a little squeeze; she returned it gratefully, tears already gathering in her eyes as, looking down to the opposite end of the huge marquee she could see the forms of Ron and Harry standing in wait for her.

"Stop it, Hermione, or you'll start me off," Ginny told her and, sniffing, Hermione smiled happily. She linked her arm through her father's, and smiled up at him.

"Let's go, Dad," she said, and Robert felt his chest fill with pride and love as he looked down at her and returned the smile with the whole of his heart.

The walk down the aisle seemed to take longer than she had ever imagined that it would and she tried to enjoy the sensation of being watched by every single person in the marquee, smiling softly at them all and concentrating on the gently swishing noise her dress made as she walked, on the warm solidity of her father's supporting arm, and on the fact that just metres away from her stood Ron, the enormous grin on his face brighter than she thought she had ever seen it in her life. As she passed her mother she attempted to smile but she had dissolved uselessly into tears, alongside Molly, and so she squeezed Robert's arm one last time for support before he left her standing beside Ron, Harry to his left with a red rose slotted in his buttonhole, Ginny to her right with her recently-found corsage displayed proudly on her left wrist.

"My dear ladies and gentlemen," came the voice of the minister presiding over the ceremony, a tall and thin wizard whom Hermione initially mistook for the elderly wizard who officiated over Bill and Fleur's wedding, before remembering that that wizard had been at least six inches shorter and not completely bald. "We are gathered today to witness the union of two faithful souls, Miss Hermione Jean Granger and Mr Ronald Bilius Weasley."

Hermione had been to only two weddings in her lifetime – one being Bill and Fleur's wedding and the other being Rebecca and Michael's wedding, the two of them having done things in reverse somewhat by having children first and then not marrying until Ruari had reached his ninth birthday – and each had been fairly similar to the other, but nothing had prepared her for the sensation of being the person saying "I do", of wearing the dress herself.

"Do you, Ronald Bilius, take Hermione Jean…?"

She tried to concentrate on the words the minister was saying to her instead of frantically trying to collect all the words that would make up her vows very shortly, and especially instead of bursting into tears at the swelling feeling she was currently experiencing in her heart, and then all of a sudden it was time for the vows and she wasn't quite ready. Ron, however, had other ideas, and, pulling out the folded square of parchment Harry discovered this morning and later approved whole-heartedly of, he opened it carefully, achingly slowly, and then took her hand in his, his soft blue eyes grazing hers as he haltingly began to read the slip of parchment, his voice strong but tender and trembling with meaning.

"I know I kicked up a fuss when you said you wanted us to write our own vows, but it's not because I didn't want to do it. It's because I had no idea how I could possibly put into words how much I love you; it took me long enough to spell it out for myself, let alone tell you how I felt. And I didn't know how to write it, and I couldn't get the words right the way you would, but I couldn't exactly ask you for help, and it didn't look right on the page when I did write it myself, so I gave up in the end, and I stole lines from poems, and songs, and things like that. And it was beautiful, really beautiful, but whenever I read it I felt like I was lying, because none of the words were mine, so I decided to write exactly what I felt, and write it simply if I had to. They're not really even vows anymore, but they're things you need to know. So, here goes."

He took a deep breath before plunging on, and Hermione couldn't decide whether or not to blink, because if she didn't then the tears gathering in her eyes would surely blind her, but if she did, she wouldn't be able to stop them from gushing down her face. She tried to concentrate on the warmness of his hand, wrapped so carefully around her own fingers as he spoke. He focused on her as he spoke, trying to see only her smile and her eyes, because that way it felt as though he was speaking only to her and no one else could hear them; they were in a place far away from here where it didn't matter that he was laying himself bare for everyone to see, because only she could hear him.

"I love you. There's no point in me wrapping it up with fancy words because that won't change it or make it any truer, but I do love you, so much. I can't be your knight in shining armour, and I can't ever be your fancy hero on a white horse, but I can give you every single part of me, and I'd like to think that that's what I've done so far. I know we never had it easy, and I know I've been absolutely foul to you in the past, but I hope I've made up for that. If not, I'm so grateful that I've got the opportunity to spend every day of my life making sure you know exactly how incredible you are. You're my best friend – apart from Harry, obviously, but I can't really marry _him_ -"

He paused momentarily, waiting for the ripple of laughter that moved through the marquee to disperse before he continued (and ignoring Harry's expression – he had tried to talk Ron into removing that particular joke), the hand holding Hermione's shaking slightly with the effort of concentrating and getting his words out properly.

"– and the best thing I ever did was lock you in with that troll, because if that hadn't happened then I'd probably never have known what I was missing out on – I'd have never known how brave and intelligent, and _decent_ you are, and I'm so glad I made that mistake of nearly killing you, because you're the best mistake I ever made, and let's face it, I've made a lot in my time. I promise I'll never forget that, as long as I live, ever, and I promise that I'll spend the rest of my life showing you how glad I am that I did that. I promise."

And now Hermione had to bite her lip to stem the tears in her eyes, and seeing Ginny's wasn't helping her in the slightest, especially when she realised that Ron had finished and it was now her turn to speak.

"Where're your vows?" Ron asked, and Hermione smiled, trying not to notice the way his own voice was thick with tears and happiness.

"I haven't got them," she said, her voice stronger than he expected it to be, given how tearful she was. Before he could panic or accuse her of hypocrisy, she spoke, her words coming out in a rush as her emotions overtook her logic. "I know I wanted us to write our own vows, and I did write mine. I was going to come out here and say exactly what I'd written on the little cards. But when I was in that tent I started thinking, and I realised I don't want to write it on a card, I don't want it to be sugar-wrapped and conventional and nice like that, because that's sweet, but it's not _us_. When I first met you, you were rude and you were stubborn and you had dirt on your nose, and you stayed that way for a long time. We had to fight long and hard even to be friends, and even then we argued constantly along the way, and I love that. You will _always_ be the little boy with the dirty nose to me, even when you're old and wrinkled and don't look anything like you did when you were eleven. And I don't care if you can't be my knight, because I never wanted one; I never wanted to be rescued, and I never wanted to be the damsel in distress. I don't want you to be my knight, because you've never let me be the damsel; you've always made sure I knew exactly what I'm worth, you've always pushed me and supported me and protected me in every way it's possible to, and I wish I had the words to tell you how much that means to me. You might not have rescued me but you've always been there for me; you've always come back for me, and that means so much more.

"So I promise all the normal things about loyalty and ever-lasting love and- and -" – she stuttered slightly, the tears of happiness in her voice making her gasp – "- and in sickness and in health, and all of that, but I promise even more that I will always argue with you, _always_, over stupid little things that drive everyone else mad. I promise that I will never let us get bored of each other, or indifferent, because I'm never bored when I'm with you, and I promise that even when you're driving me insane I will remember exactly why I love you; because you're brave, and you're loyal, and because you never give up fighting for what you believe in, and because you remind me to relax when I'm stressed over something stupid, and for that I will always be grateful to you."

She could see the tears forming in his eyes now at her words, sliding smoothly from his throat, and she squeezed his fingers carefully in a bid to stop both of them from letting go during the ceremony, though Ginny and their mothers seemed to have no such restraint, and Harry's grin was now enormous. The minister smiled as she brought her improvised speech to a close, and raised his wand, saying in ringing tones, "I declare you bonded for life," before sending showers of silver and gold sparkles down around Hermione and Ron, who stood kissing freely as the sound of applause from the guests tumbled over them and the music swelled ever more loudly, and then Catherine had pulled Hermione away and was hugging her more tightly than she ever had in her life, and she and Ron seemed to be being passed around as everyone clamours to congratulate them and to kiss the bride.

When Hermione was next able to stand by herself and look around she was surprised to note that the marquee was not as it was moments before; just like at Bill and Fleur's wedding it had been magically transformed into a canopy with a silver-floored dancing area, complete with red-covered tables and little gold and silver chairs, and with waitresses in neat black dresses passing around drinks and snacks; enormous red, gold, and silver balloons were dotted all around the canopy, and the lanterns and candles seemed more beautiful than ever. The trees outside were strung with thousands of tiny lights which Hermione knew would look almost ethereal as the sun began to set.

"Congratulations," came a voice behind her, and turning around she saw Harry and Ginny standing there. Recognising the voice as Harry's she pulled him into a tight hug, trying to wipe her eyes as she did so, but when he squeezed her and whispered, "I'm proud of you," she felt the fresh tears coming even as she wiped them away. Ginny was next to hug her, openly sobbing now, and before Hermione could speak properly to her she felt a hand wrap around hers and pull her away.

"Sorry about stealing her like this but it's time for the first dance," Ron told them as he swept her away.

She stood before Ron in the centre of the dancing area, and as the red-jacketed band in the corner struck up a song she wrapped her arms around his neck and for long moments the two of them swayed on the spot to much applause, Hermione only concentrating on the beautiful notes of the piano and the warmth of Ron's breath on the nape of her neck as they danced; when George and Charlie joined them and started dancing furiously to the slow song there was rapturous laughter and they were quickly joined by the majority of the guests.

As the afternoon wore on and dissolved into evening, the dance-floor alternated between positively humming with life and activity and being scarcely occupied as people sat down to eat. By early evening, Hermione and Ron were simply passing from guest to guest, accepting each of their congratulations happily, and most of the guests were mingling with one another. Hermione's feet were aching from all the dancing – she hadn't thought she even knew this many people, but apparently she did, and every one of them seemed to want to dance with her.

Auntie Muriel, having noticed Harry and Ginny despite Ginny's best efforts (which involved ducking at random moments) not to be seen by her, had pounced on the two of them and was now scolding Harry very loudly about his callous failure to make an appearance at Bill's wedding, though much of the telling off seemed to be taking the form of a soliloquy.

"Just disgraceful, thinking he's better than us commoners, does he? Could have brushed his hair this time, though, couldn't he? Rude, if you ask me, slovenly. Or is he too good for that? Too good to turn up last time, weren't you, eh?" Auntie Muriel had apparently lost her taste for Harry, and though she was speaking as though he wasn't standing beside her he smiled good-naturedly at her,ignoring the way Ginny kept stepping on his foot and shooting him bewildered glances which said _why are you just taking this?_ He tried to convey with his eyes that he didn't care; he wasn't going to ruin Ron and Hermione's day by getting into a petty argument with a vicious old woman, but it didn't seem to be working.

"Oh, Harry was here, Auntie Muriel," Ginny said eventually, finally having had enough and leaning across Harry, breaking in before he got the chance to answer the old woman more politely. "Don't you remember? You spoke to him for _ages_."

"I did?" The thick wrinkles on Muriel's face seemed to deepen in her confusion as she struggled to remember a conversation that never happened. "I don't remember that – I remember Ronald telling me some cock-and-bull story that Potter couldn't come. Obviously he's now decided he's good enough to talk to the little people."

"No, no, Auntie Muriel, you had a _really good_ chat with Harry, for half the wedding, don't you remember?" Ginny said, stepping carefully on Harry's foot once more as he opened his mouth to contradict her. "He was telling you how beautiful your tiara was, don't you remember? And you were asking him about his scar."

"I most certainly do not, Ginevra," Muriel said, irritation setting in as she failed once more to recall the memory of an incident which did not happen.

"Really?" Ginny replied pleasantly. She shrugged and plastered a big faux-apologetic smile across her face. "Oh dear."

"You," Harry said as they walked away from Muriel, hand in hand, "are a very, very evil girl."

"Complaining?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Well, she's always so foul to everyone," Ginny said as they reached the throng of guests on the dance floor. "It'll serve her right to think her memory's going for a bit."

They pushed their way carefully through the crowd, searching for a spot large enough for the two of them to dance comfortably. The music suddenly switched to a a slow song, and she immediately wound her arms around his neck, almost instinctively. Harry pulled her closer and they danced in comfortable silence for a while, watching the dancers beside them who were quickly pairing off. Molly and Arthur danced a practiced waltz and Catherine and Robert held hands as they twirled to the music. Ginny caught sight of Ruari at the edge of the dance floor; he waved to her and she flexed a couple of fingers in lukewarm response, not wishing to encourage him. For one scary moment he looked as though he were about to come over, but just then Charlie and George danced by, having, in the absence of any single girls who weren't relatives or under-age, decided to pair off with one another. George led, Charlie playing the part of the woman, complete with stupid grin and fluttery eyelashes, and she and Harry joined in with the laughter of everyone else on the dance floor as the two brothers twirled almost-elegantly around.

"Well, they seem to be enjoying themselves," Harry grinned, turning back to Ginny as Charlie and George sashayed away.

"Yeah," Ginny replies. "Charlie's just filling in for Fred – those two would definitely have done this if he'd been here – but he does look like he's having fun. Maybe a bit _too_ much fun..."

She trailed off pensively and Harry narrowed his eyes, trying to follow the threads of her thought process.

"What d'you mean, _too_ much fun?" he asked, and then he snorted. "Are you trying to say you think he's gay?"

Ginny wasn't laughing. "No. But it wouldn't surprise me if he was. And it wouldn't _bother_ me, either."

The grin slid from Harry's face. "I didn't say it would. I'm just surprised, that's all."

"What's so surprising about it?" Ginny mused, pensive rather than defensive once again. "I've never known him to have a girlfriend, even at school. He shows no sign of wanting to change any time soon."

"That's stupid, Gin," Harry replied. "By that logic, I was gay until I was about fifteen. He might just not have met anyone yet."

"Or maybe he _has_ and he doesn't want us to know," Ginny said. She sighed. "Maybe I'll ask him one day."

"I think you're being silly, Gin," Harry told her, smiling to remove the potential insult from his words. "Not having an interest in girls doesn't necessarily mean he has an interest in boys."

"I guess."

"So stop acting like Ron would – jumping to silly conclusions with no evidence – and dance with me."

"I'm nothing like Ron," Ginny said, smiling playfully now. They were at the edge of the dance floor by now. "For one thing, I can dance without breaking my partner's feet. Oh, hi, Neville, d'you mind if we nick this seat?"

"Nah, it's fine." Neville smiled as she and Harry sat down at his table, Ginny rubbing her sore feet.

"Hannah not here?" Harry frowned a little.

"Oh, no, she's here, she's just gone to get drinks."

"How're things going with you two?" Ginny asked, and Neville coloured slightly, a silly grin forming on his face.

"Great," he said. "She's really great. Have you spoken to her much since school?" Ginny and Harry both shook their heads, and Neville smiled a little wider. "I guess not, it's understandable really. You should talk to her now, though, she's amazing, seriously. She's talking about buying the Leaky Cauldron when Tom retires and making it her own."

As Neville spoke contentedly about Hannah, Harry couldn't help glancing over to where Hermione and Ron stood, speaking to Kingsley together. Ron's arm was resting lightly around Hermione's waist, looking quite as comfortable as if the curve of her body was created with him in mind, and looking at them Harry couln't honestly picture a time when he remembered either of them being quite as happy as they appeared now. He had always thought that today would be strange; that the idea of watching his two best friends getting married would be odd enough, never mind that it would be to one another, but looking at them now it felt like the most natural thing in the world, and like dozens of people before him, he wondered to himself what on earth it was that took them so long to realise that for themselves.

**~ OoOoO ~**

**A Quick Note Regarding Hermione: **

_I have decided that Hermione doesn't have any other real blood-family apart from her parents; I am basing this on the fact that, in canon, she only ever mentions her parents, and it is only her parents who are hidden away in book seven. To my logic, if she had a wider (close) family she would have hidden or wiped the memories of them too, to keep them and her safe and in turn Harry. I've given her a maternal aunt and uncle just so that she isn't yet another family-less character, again with the logic that her aunt and uncle would have an entirely different surname, one that isn't even her mother's maiden name, and therefore would have been unlikely to be hunted down by the Death Eaters. Plus it's never expressly stated what Hermione's parents tells people about her magical abilities, so I'm also going by the assumption that her mother's relatives have only recently been told, having previously been under the impression that she attends a prestigious boarding school, therefore would have been a very unlikely target (due to a lack of awareness of Harry's existence, let alone his whereabouts) and therefore would not have required hiding like her parents._

_It's never, as far as I remember, expressly stated that the Weasley's home cannot be found by Muggles, so I am going by the assumption that Hermione's aunt and uncle can find it when told precisely where it is. Secondly, since I don't know if Hermione has any canon family besides her parents therefore cannot for obvious reasons check, and since I'm creating four OCs, and since I absolutely love Irish names and this is as good an excuse to use them as any, I've decided Hermione's uncle is Irish. There was a boy in my class at school called Ruari, which is how I know the pronunciation – for anyone who is unsure, it's basically an Irish version of Rory. Thirdly, the spell Ginny uses was taken from an online Latin translator and is an amalgamation of the words vox vocis meaning voice and sus meaning, bizarrely, pig. And, obviously, humanis is Latin for human. _

_Fourthly, I really hope the wedding vows don't sound cheesy. I'm always paranoid that I've wobbled over the lines between 'sad' and 'mawkish, and between 'sweet and romantic' and 'cheesy and over-the-top', so if they do, I sincerely apologise and welcome any suggestions. I quite like them, personally, but then I'm not writing this entirely for myself (although I am a bit)._

_Oh, and fifthly (and, I promise, lastly); I decided that this chapter would be as long as it needs to be and that I wouldn't stop writing until the entire story of the wedding day was finished, properly, because it's such an important chapter it really shouldn't be broken down. So I apologise if your neck is stiff after reading this, or if you seem to have misplaced several days of your life! It was that or upload about eighteen chapters all focussing on the same day!!_


	18. A Less Than Sweet Honeymoon

**~ Chapter Eighteen – A Less Than Sweet Honeymoon ~**

**May 17th 2002**

**The Burrow**

"Nana! Nanaaaaaa!"

The plaintive little cry drifted through the Burrow from the garden, and at the sound of her grand-daughter's voice Molly moved from her position at the kitchen sink where she had been cleaning the dishes by hand just for the heck of it. She craned her neck to see into the long garden just in time to hear more high pitched squealing and she threw a curious glance over her shoulder. Behind her, at the table, Ginny shrugged, her hands curling around her mug of tea.

"That's definitely Victoire, Mum. I don't think Teddy can manage that pitch."

"I don't know," Harry said, grinning slightly. "If you tickle him enough he starts to sound a bit like a budgie – that might be him squealing."

Molly was about to retort when Victoire slid gracefully over the threshold of the kitchen door, her dark blonde curls breaking free from her ponytail, the large blue eyes she inherited from her mother narrowed into a scowl, her little rosebud mouth set into a perfect pout. Molly stooped to collect her in her arms but Victoire stopped short.

"Nana," she said, her eyes screwed up tightly and her little face so cross it was comical. "Look what he did!"

Molly was puzzled. "I don't understand, sweetheart. What did Teddy do?"

Victoire pressed her little hands over her eyes and said, "He made them go all red."

"He made what go red?" Molly's voice was soft.

"Look, Nana!"

Victoire wrenched her hands from her eyes and stared up at her grandmother. Molly tried not to recoil at the sight of her tiny granddaughters eyes. Looking out from Victoire's pale oval face were two scarlet balls with a little black dot for a pupil. The entire eyeball was scarlet, rather than just the iris, and as Harry looked down at his niece he couldn't help but feel a mixture of annoyance and rough pride towards his godson for managing to do a fairly complicated piece of magic.

"Where is he, Vicky?" he asked, but Victoire was still gabbling away to Molly.

"Look Nana, he made them go all red and I didn't do anything! He tooked my doll so I tooked his broomstick and he was 'noyed at me and I feeled funny and he said my eyeses were all red Nana! And he laughed lots and I said it's not funny and he said yes it is and I runned away."

"Okay, Victoire, Nana will fix it for you, okay? Just hold still." Molly looked up at Harry. "Will you go get Teddy for me, please, Harry, dear?"

Harry nodded and slid from his seat, heading down the length of the garden to find his errant godson.

"Okay, Victoire, can you open your eyes for Nana, sweetheart? As big as they can go, like an owl – that's it, that's perfect, right, keep them like that and if you do that then Nana has a present for you."

"A big special present?"

"Yes, a big special present, but only if you're a good girl and you make your eyes as big as you can and don't shut them. How's that sound?"

Victoire barely considered the idea – she heard the word "present" and stopped listening. At her careful nod, Molly raised her wand and pointed it carefully at her little granddaughter.

"_Ocultum Restituo_," she said, and Victoire blinked. When she lifted her eyelids once more Molly could see the deep topaz that was her natural colour swirling out clearly from the scarlet, washing it away until her eyes were their normal shade of blue.

"That's better, darling," she told Victoire. "Now, let's get you that present."

Victoire squealed and clapped her hands in excitement, her previous experience entirely forgotten. Molly reached into a cupboard above the kitchen sink and pulled out a ceramic jar; she stuck her hand inside and withdrew it, her fingers folded around a foil-wrapped Chocolate Frog.

"So that's where you've been hiding them," Ginny mused, sipping her tea. "That means Ron owes me a Galleon – he always used to insist the sweets were hidden under the floorboards in the living room."

"Yes, well, special treats are for special girls, aren't they, sweetheart?" Molly cooed, handing the Frog to Victoire, the foil already expertly removed. "But you must promise you won't take Teddy's things again, even if he takes your things first. You must tell a grown-up instead. Okay?"

Victoire nodded, her mouth too full of chocolate to speak.

"Come on, you." Harry's voice had laughter in it as he walked back through the kitchen door, his hand clamped firmly on Teddy's thin shoulder. The little boy caught his foot on the threshold and nearly spiralled to the ground; Harry tightened his grip and darted his other hand out to catch Teddy's chest just as he tumbled.

"Seeker instincts surfacing again?" Ginny asked, half-teasing and Harry pulled a face.

"No, just me seeing he's definitely Tonks' son."

He set Teddy firmly back on his feet. Teddy stood in front of him, eyes cast down in an almost perfect portrayal of apology were it not for the sheepish smile on his mouth.

"Now," Harry told him. "I think you have something you need to say, Ted."

Teddy shook his head, embarrassed. "I don't want to."

"It doesn't matter if you want to say it or not, Teddy," Harry said softly, but firmly. "You did something wrong, and you need to say sorry."

"I didn't mean to." Teddy's voice was stubborn.

"I know you didn't mean to, and you're not being punished for it. But you did upset Victoire when you laughed at her and you need to say sorry for that. And you took her doll as well – you need to say sorry for that too."

"Don't want to." Teddy's pout deepened.

"Teddy." Harry's voice brooked no argument, and Teddy crossed his arms theatrically.

"Sorry." His voice was resentful; he looked at Harry from beneath his lashes, mildly venomous.

"Thank you," Molly told him, and then she poked Victoire gently with her finger. "You too, young lady."

"Sorry," Victoire told him, her mouth still thick with chocolate.

There was a hesitant pause in which Teddy swayed slightly on the spot, as if debating with himself whether or not to act before the compulsion to took over. He took a step towards Victoire, his arm held out stiffly in front of him. Clutched in his little fist was a tiny pink flower, which Molly instantly recognised as one of her new gladiolas. He held it out for Victoire to take.

"Here you are, Victoire," he told her, without a hint of bashfulness. "I brung this for you 'cos I made your eyes go red."

Victoire accepted the flower shyly and tentatively smelled it. "It smells nice, Teddy," she told him, and then she extended her free hand to him. Hand in hand the two of them returned to the garden, their earlier quarrel entirely forgotten, their faces split wide with identical grins.

"There you go, Mum," Ginny said with a grin, watching them. "That's one more wedding you can plan. If you start now you'll probably be finished by the time they're of age."

"Ginny! They're three and four years old!"

Ginny shrugged. "So? Teddy can't get enough of Victoire. The other night when he stayed over he started talking about her and he said, 'I'm going to marry Victoire when I'm grown up'."

"Did he?" Molly's interest was sparked; she hadn't known this.

"Yeah," Harry said, crossing back to the table. "But as he also said he wants to be a turtle when he grows up, I wouldn't listen too closely. AHHHH!"

"What? What's wrong?" Ginny's voice was panicked; she was unaccustomed to Harry randomly screaming for no apparent reason.

Harry reached into the pocket of his thin shorts, worn today because of the unusual heat. When he removed it he was holding a gold coin.

"Bloody thing," he muttered. "Not meant to go so hot...oh, bugger...Gin, Mrs Weasley, I've got to go, I'm really sorry."

"What has happened?" Ginny's voice was bewildered and Molly looked equally confused.

Harry barely had time to convey the message as he spun hurriedly on the spot, thinking his destination as hard as he could.

"I need to contact the French Ministry," he said darkly as he turns. "Ron's in trouble."

And then he was gone, leaving only Ginny and Molly to stare at one another and wonder what on earth could have happened.

* * *

**Outside the _Café Coeur D'or_, Nice, France**

**Thirty minutes previously**

"I still say Ginny didn't need to react like that. He was only curious."

"Hermione, he was horrible. I know he's your cousin and everything, but honestly – the way he was _looking _at her."

Hermione smiled tightly. "You're just saying that because she's your little sister."

"Yeah, and she also happens to be my best friend's girlfriend – or fiancée, or whatever it is they're calling themselves now – and it wasn't right. He was _leching_ at her."

Hermione laughed musically and Ron tried to stop himself from physically drinking in the notes of her voice. "'Leching'? Isn't that what dirty old men do?" She reached across the little café table for another fresh croissant.

Ron narrowed his eyes at her as he passed the dish over. "Very funny. But that just makes it even worse – he's, what, eighteen? And he's leching already!"

"He wasn't leching!" She bit delicately into her croissant as she spoke. Ron was less graceful as he ate, carving up his bacon with relish as he replied to her comment.

"Hermione, he _was_. You just didn't see because you were so in awe of finally being married to the wonder that is yours truly. He kept coming up with stupid reasons to talk to her, ones even I'd have rejected. He didn't take his eyes off her, and he had this weird sort of smile on his face, like he'd been punched but he liked it."

"_What?"_

"All right, so maybe it's difficult to explain," Ron said, frowning slightly. He paused briefly and a dazed expression drifted over his features, as if he had been turned to stone whilst experiencing a kind of happy stupor, so that he wore a crooked and extremely dopey half-grin and his eyes were glazed over. "He looked like this."

Hermione spluttered with laughter. "If that's your impression of someone being lecherous then it's a _really_ good thing you're not a lecher!"

He reached over to poke her ribs in response; she dodged his outstretched fingers deftly and seemed to ensnare his hand in her own before he realised what was happening. She pulled his hand lightly to her and allowed it to rest briefly against her heart. "I'm glad. It'd be really difficult to love you if you were."

He could feel the words vibrating in her chest as she speaks.

"Well, then it's a good thing you're so against marrying your cousins," Ron grinned. "Although personally I think Ginny handles rejection better than you ever would."

"If by 'better' you mean 'more elaborately', then I would have to agree with you," Hermione told him, remembering the incident.

"Oh, stop pretending you disapprove," Ron told her. "You know you think it's a _bit_ funny. And you can't tell me you didn't think Harry's face was hilarious."

He chuckled at the memory.

Ruari had followed Ginny around like a lovesick puppy for almost the entire wedding reception, the stupid grin fixed in place. He had been oblivious to her standoffish body language; the way her eyes didn't really engage when she returned yet another smile to him, the way she was careful to arch her body away from his so that his playful touches could not reach her, the way she rolled her eyes and even yawned loudly once or twice, right in the middle of another story designed solely to impress her and embellished suitably so as to achieve that end. He hadn't flinched at the mention of his porcine experience, though Ginny was careful to mention it several times to him, and nor did he seem to be put off by her stories of her battle prowess, her offensive skills and the horrific fights she had already been engaged in. If anything they seemed to excite him a little.

Ginny, for the most part, had been a good, if disinterested, sport. She had played nicely, feigning at least a smidgen of interest in his teenage boasts and pretending politely not to understand his veiled hints that he thought she was beautiful. For her new sister-in-law, she had been willing to tolerate this insufferable boy, solely to secure Hermione's happiness, but eventually Ruari had found the chink in her serene mental armour. Really, there had been _two_ chinks, two things that had broken her resolve to ignore this irritating but essentially harmless relative of Hermione's.

The first had been his reception of Harry. She had seized upon Harry as he ambled past, a drink in his hand, pulling his arm suddenly and dragging him to stand beside her.

"This is Harry," she had told Ruari. "My boyfriend."

"Right," Ruari had said dismissively, the grin slipping momentarily from his face. He had ignored Harry's welcoming grin and he had refused to notice the way Harry had held out his hand in greeting. And Ginny had pretended she didn't see it, either, squeezing Harry's hand in support at the unexpected rejection. The same way she pretended she didn't see Ruari's dark green eyes raking over Harry, cool analysis clear in every single part of him and the slight sneer on his face almost palpable to her.

But the second, and most significant, had been when Ruari had then had the nerve to look up at her with what he clearly thought was an irresistable grin, one that he obviously believed was full of his inherited "Irish charm" and one that had clearly worked on countless silly little girls at home, and actually said to her, "I'm going out for some air. I'll see you there in five minutes," his voice oozing cockiness. And something inside her had snapped.

She had pulled Harry closer to her, whipping him around to face her with such force that his drink slopped all over them both, and in the space between heartbeats she was reaching up to crush her lips against his, catching him by surprise and taking his breath away as she did so, so that even as he hungrily returned the kiss his eyes were wide with shock. Feeling Ruari's stony glare behind her Ginny had deepened the kiss further, pressing herself as closely to Harry as she possibly could, tangling her fingers in his hair and letting the tiniest of moans roll from her mouth, meant for Ruari alone, smiling all the while.

And then she had turned, achingly slowly, wiping her mouth slightly and letting Harry stand there, a little shell-shocked, and she had smiled at Ruari. "Sorry," she had told him, in a voice that was _almost_ apologetic, though the smirk in in lent it an edge that was too sharp for regret. "Would you excuse me? I think Harry might need a bit of _fresh air,_ don't you?"

She had winked at the words _fresh air _and grabbed Harry's hand once more, tugging him behind her as she walked past Ruari, trying not to laugh outright at the flurry of emotions that were fighting for precedence on Ruari's face. Feeling spiteful and knowing he was still glaring at the two of them as they made their way through the crowd to exit the marquee, she had allowed her hand to slip from the small of Harry's back where she had carefully positioned it and instead squeezed his bottom as they walked, not letting go until they were safely outside and she could laugh until she cried at Harry's bewildered expression before she explained what had happened to him.

"Well, I thought it was brilliant, personally," Ron told Hermione, jolting back to the present at the soft chink of her replacing her teacup onto the table. "Anyway, what d'you want to do today?"

"I don't know." Hermione sipped at her drink once more, so that Ron could see the taut muscles pulling in her throat. He smiled inwardly, marvelling at his own luck.

"Well, it's completely up to you," he told her. "I'm happy to do absolutely anything you have in mind. Your wish is my command."

"It's your honeymoon too, Ron." She was only half scolding him. "You have to have fun too."

"Says who?" Ron's jaw was set in mock defiance. "I can have a rubbish time if I want to. But then again, I am honeymooning with the most perfect person in the world, so I might have to try extra hard not to enjoy myself. Let's see..."

As if to prove his point Ron set down his fork and strained slightly, the slightly crushed expression on his face indicative of some immense internal struggle. His pale skin started to darken as the pressure made blood began to pool there, the darker colour of his freckles disappearing with the effort of his endeavours. "Nope," he told Hermione eventually, his voice thin with exertion. "Not working. I'm still happy. Maybe I should try harder?"

"Oh, stop it, Ron!" Hermione said, hitting his arm lightly as he took a deep breath and readied himself to begin straining again. "You look like you're trying to – to – force incontinence or something!"

Ron let out a bark of laughter. "_Force incontinence?" _He repeated the words with a kind of hysterical incredulity, as if it was the most ridiculous combination of syllables he had ever heard in his life. "Why can't you just say "do a poo" like _normal_ people?"

An English couple at the next table glanced up at this, and Hermione's narrowed eyes and tightly laced mouth signalled to Ron that he was being perhaps a little too boisterous and most definitely too loud. He slid down in his seat a little, his skin flushed now from embarrassment rather than the efforts of his straining.

"Well, it's true," he muttered to his young wife, still defiant. _Wife_. It had taken a while to get used to that word. Not quite as long, however, as it had taken for him to be able to look at her and experience a kind of desire utterly free from longing, because how can you long for something that is already and always will be unalterably in your possession? What didn't help was that fact that sometimes, just sometimes, he couldn't quite believe it was true; that he had finally won the battle and got the girl. Weasleys didn't sail off into the sunset. And yet here he was, personal proof that not only did Weasleys most definitely sail off into the sunset, they also got the sunset handed to them on a silver platter, so that it was always within plain sight. It was difficult for him to reconcile that idea with his own memories, with his own perception of himself as the awkward and immature boy Hermione grew up with. Sometimes it was easier to slip back into that role. He didn't spend the day pinching himself that way. "It's just a word."

"Ron." Hermione said the word carefully, as if trying to control something within her. Not her temper; she wouldn't lose it now, not here. "We are on holiday -"

"Honeymoon." He couldn't help correcting her; it was instinctual, a reflex, and he waited for her temper to bubble up once again. When it didn't, he watched her carefully.

Hermione looked pensive, and she frowned suddenly, staring at something over his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" Ron was instantly on red alert; there was something about her frown that wasn't right, some kind of atmospheric change and he knew, utterly, that it was something serious. This most definitely wasn't in response to his childish use of the word _poo_.

Hermione didn't answer for long moments; her eyes narrowed infinitesimally more and her lips parted slightly. She breathed, loud enough for Ron to hear but not so loudly that he could distinguish what she said, though he was certain that the expulsion of tangled air was shaped around a thought, an idea.

"Finley Pattinson."

She breathed the word again, an air of finality about them, and Ron felt his skin prickle slightly. He leant forward and dropped his voice below a whisper so that she alone would hear it.

"Finley Pattinson?"

She nodded. "I'm sure of it."

"How do you know?" Ron tried to shake the feeling of dazedness away.

Hermione's mouth set in a grim line; she had not yet taken her eyes away from the man over Ron's shoulder. "Some of the folders you brought home from work. His name and photo on the front. Sorry – I shouldn't have been prying." She blushed slightly, embarrassed to admit to Ron that she had been sneaking looks at his work. "But you'd fallen asleep and I was clearing things from your desk, tidying around you, and I couldn't help but see it. I'm sorry."

Ron blinked away his disbelief. "Hermione. You're trying to tell me that there is an escaped and _highly wanted_ Darkling standing behind me in the middle of our honeymoon in _France_ of all places, and you're apologising for looking at my sodding _files_? How sure are you it's Pattinson? Can you be certain?"

Hermione nodded. "I'm sure. He moves just as arrogantly as he does in his photograph. And I'd have recognised that scar either way – it's very distinctive."

Ron tried to swivel slightly in his seat, turning in an attempt at subtlety, so as to steal a glimpse of the Darkling for himself. Behind him stood a young man, chatting away to one of the waitresses in rapid French, his dark eyes keen and narrowed against the glare of the midday sun. His long blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and his clothes were inconspicuous and simple – a white t-shirt that clung to his chest and revealed the muscles beneath, coupled with long dark shorts. He even wore sunglasses to complete the illusion, and there were only two things that convinced Ron that this man wasn't the genial and harmless Muggle he appeared. Number one was the fact that Ron remembered, distinctly, firing spells at this very man's face a few short months ago; he remembered that marked face, almost made handsome by the sunlight and the splendour of the day, twisted into a furious snarl as he fought. And he remembered the long pale scar that caressed the length of his face, unfurling from his left eye and sliding down to cup his jawline, the quicksilver souvenir of a run-in with the Ministry and a Scalding Curse last year. But number two, far more important to Ron's mind, was the sight of the long thin bulge that jutted out slightly from the side of the man's shorts, as if he had stuffed something carefully down his shorts so that it rested against him, tucked beneath his waistband.

"He's got his wand." Hermione said it out loud, her whisper barely a breath, though Ron had already surmised as much. "Do you think he'll use it?"

Ron bet she didn't realise she wasn't breathing normally; he could hear the ragged strains of air as she panicked inwardly, worrying how to react, what to do. He reached across the table for her hand and turned to face her, sure of his decision. He spoke quickly, his voice low.

"Keep your eyes on him. Not obviously, just – just try and keep him in your line of sight, without staring, if that's possible. He's already seen us, you can bet your life on that, but we can't let him out of our sight. We've been looking for Pattinson for ages – we had no idea he'd escaped this far. I've got no intentions of letting him get away again. I bet he's not alone, though."

"What do you mean?" Hermione somehow seemed to manage to ask this whilst barely moving her lips, which were pulled back into a fake smile. Ron knew without looking that Pattinson had chosen this moment to look over and that this grin was intended for him, to relax him, to convince him that she was a simple tourist. But Ron was close enough to see what Pattinson could not; the feral way her lips were pulled back over her teeth, so that it was less a smile than a grimace, or a snarl.

"Think about it. We only know about the Darklings we've either captured or specifically been told about." Ron's face was expressionless, sensing the tendrils of fear that were climbing their way up the ladder of Hermione's spine, and not wishing to worry her further if possible. "So for all we know, _he_ -" he jerked his head imperceptibly towards Pattinson - "could have any number of mates with him. The bloke sitting at the table next to him – the one with the dark hair, reading the wine list – he looks like Jonas Scott, for a start, which means he's in deeper than we thought. And that's not including the possibility they've recruited any more while they've been here. Don't – don't try to run."

He gripped her wrist suddenly as she moved, intending to stand up, to run. He locked his eyes on hers, trying to display the urgency of what he was telling her.

"You'll just draw attention to yourself – chances are he's already seen you watching him, and he'll recognise me, we've had a few run-ins. And he won't care about attacking, he won't stop and think. Neither of them will. I don't know about Scott but Pattinson - I've fought him a few times, and he's absolutely ruthless. He's spiteful and he's vicious and he won't care. The only reason he stopped was when he realised how outnumbered he was and that we'd captured or ki – _overpowered_ his friends. But he won't care about that right now; if you run he'll know we're onto him."

Hermione's eyes were wide. "Ron – this is our honeymoon, we're meant to be relaxing, and you've just told me there's basically another Death Eater behind you, a really vicious, _cruel_ one that's already escaped several times with _goodness_ knows how many friends just like him, he's with at least one of them, he probably already recognises you and, oh, even _better_, you want me to stay calm and act like nothing's happened!" She said all this in a mildly hysterical hiss, her volume never rising above a whisper but her meaning utterly clear.

"Hermione, sweetheart – please, stop worrying. We're going to fix this." Ron's eyes were bright with determination. "_I'm_ going to fix this for you. I need back-up though; there's no way I can take them by myself, not without knowing what it is I'm going after."

"You won't be by yourself."

"I know – I need to get in touch with Harry, and the French Ministry, that's gonna be easier than waiting for everyone to Apparate over."

"No, Ron." Hermione's jaw was set and there was a fierce look in her eyes as she locked them onto Ron's, gripping his hand tightly. "I mean you won't be _by yourself_. I'm coming with you."

A harsh shred of laughter fell from Ron's mouth, his face set just as stonily with resolve as his wife's. "Oh, no you're not."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're not coming with me – you're not fighting!"

Hermione narrowed her eyes once more. "Try and stop me."

Ron was shaking his head, his red hair rippling and the golden strands, bleached by the sun, shine out at Hermione, so that it was all she could do not to press her face to his hair and just _inhale_. The honeysuckle-orange-sunshine scent of him had always drawn her toward him, like a beacon, even unconsciously. At school she would breathe it in during their arguments, so that even as she shouted at him she could feel the particles that were unmistakeably _Ron_ prickling in her throat and lungs. When they fought in the battle at Hogwarts she had felt every one of her senses feeling towards him, screaming silently until they located that most familiar of scents, knowing she could not relax until the scent was in his nostrils, flooding her senses. She couldn't sleep at night without the smell of it; she couldn't unwind without it. And now, the thought of never being able to smell that soothing flavour again, and all without even being there to watch him that final time, was so unbearable that she could feel the tears in her throat before she had even begun to formulate her argument.

"You can't, Hermione. You just can't." Ron's voice was firm and urgent. "You're not fighting."

"Because I can't?" Hermione challenged him. "Or because you don't want me to?"

Ron didn't answer immediately; his throat was too tight as he thought of every possible horrible outcome if he allowed her to join him in the fight to come. Hermione seized her chance.

"That's what I thought. And if it's the first reason, then I don't know what you're talking about. It's not like I've not fought Dark wizards before. Or goblins. Or dragons. In case you've forgotten, until you left to become a bloody _Auror_ I'd done quite as much fighting as you, if not _more_ – the only difference is now you've got a fancy title for it! I have lied and I have stolen and I have thought on the spot and cheated and been _tortured_ -" Ron winced visibly at the memory of her tangled screams and she squeezed his hand tightly - "and you are _not_ facing anything like that alone just because you want to wrap me up in cotton wool. I know just as many spells and curses as you, I'm just as fast, and if you wanted some pathetic little stay-at-home wife made of glass then you shouldn't have married me, because I am _sick_ of sitting around wondering where you are and if you're okay. I got enough of it at school and I still have to do it, even now that all of that's behind us and we're grown up! So whether you want me there or not, I'm coming, and if you think you can stop me, just try."

"Are you finished?" Ron would normally have paused to think of a response to her rant but time limits applied now. "Because if you have, I really need to get messages sent before it's too late. Is he still behind me?"

"Yes."

"Good. Keep an eye on him whilst I get a message to Harry."

He rummaged in his pocket and pulled his hand out, his fist closed around something small. Standing carefully, Ron leant down to kiss Hermione's forehead, dropping a fevered whisper into her ear that looked for all the world like a lover's sweet nothing to the surrounding tourists.

"Don't let him out of your sight. Go over there if you need to keep him in sight, but don't draw attention for yourself and for the love of all that is holy, _please_ don't try to talk to him. I'll only be a second but please, promise me you'll be safe."

Hermione looked up into his eyes and her retort caught in her throat; she simply nodded and lifted a book from her bag, a carefully orchestrated distraction so as to watch Finley Pattinson unnoticed. Ron squeezed her hand once more and moved slightly to the side, careful to keep his back to Pattinson, knowing he would be recognised if Pattinson sees his face.

Ron unfurled his fingers to reveal the large gold coin nestled in his palm. He muttered the Protean incantation under his breath and stroked his thumb across the metal, concentrating as hard as he could and hoping his wandless spell work had improved sufficiently: he could hardly take it out now. Then he cracked open an eye to look down at the coin, checking whether the indentation had changed. It had; it now read in tiny scratched letters:

_In Nice – Pat.&Sct. here – send help - Ron. _

He made his way carefully back to the little table where Hermione sat, keeping his eyes to the floor.

"Ron, why are we still sitting here?" Hermione's voice was a fevered whisper, though the fake smile remained carefully painted on should Pattinson decide to look up at the wrong moment. Only her eyes betrayed her true feelings of barely-contained hysteria; Ron could see the wildness behind the hazel irises. "We should be doing something; we should be _planning_ – he could attack at any moment!"

"I've sent Harry the message," Ron told her, fighting for control of his features as he stared back at her. "As soon as he replies we can try to think of something to do, but until then we just have to sit tight and keep an eye on him. The worst thing we can do is let him out of our sight, either of them."

Jonas Scott and Finley Pattinson, for their part, seemed particularly disinterested in the goings-on of anything around them; they were barely even speaking to one another. Scott seemed engrossed in eating his meal whilst Pattinson was simply perusing a large creased copy of today's newspaper; squinting, Ron could make out the words _Le Singe Souriant _stamped across the top.

"Le Sinj – what's that he's reading?" he whispered. Hermione's eyes flicked across to Pattinson momentarily; her face creased into a wider smile and Ron guessed, correctly, that her eyes had met his.

"_Le singe souriant_," she said softly, faking a renewed interest in her book and not really seeing any of the words written on the page. "It means 'the smiling monkey' – it's a bit like a cross between _The Quibbler_ and the _Prophet_. I remember seeing a copy when I came on holiday with my parents a few years ago."

Ron was silent for a moment, his mind working overtime. "Do you think it means anything...?"

Hermione shook her head minutely. "I don't know. I don't know what he might be looking for – it's probably all very secretive and coded and goodness knows what else. It might be dodgy. Then again he might just be reading the news, we just have to – oh!"

Her 'oh' of surprise was no more than a soft expulsion of air but it was enough to make the hair along Ron's arms lift in alarm; his spine tingled with adrenaline and he fought with himself not to take hold of her in spite of the wide shock in her eyes. She spoke then, so fast that she seemed to be barely moving her lips, though the urgency of her tone communicated her precise meaning to Ron.

"Ron, they're leaving, they're going, we have to leave, come on, there's no time!"

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

_**In this chapter, Teddy gives Victoire a gladiolus, which I discovered means "love at first sight', and which I thought was quite sweet, given that they end up together. The spell which Molly performs on Victoire is an amalgamation of three Latin words I found for "restore" "eye" and "colour". **_

_**Next chapter will be a continuation of this one, and the final revelation of Sebastian's true nature...**_


	19. The Treachery of Currency

**~ Chapter Nineteen – The Treachery of Currency ~**

This was typical.

Ron puffed out air as quietly as he could as he and Hermione followed Pattinson and Scott, trying to look as casual as possible. This wasn't easy, even without the fact that the two of them looked fraught with worry, as the pace required meant that they were walking at an awkward stride somewhere between a trot and a run. Both were unnaturally quiet, eyes locked on their target, and both were frantically trying to think of what to do if, or when, they caught up with the two Dark wizards. Ron curled his fingers more tightly around the coin nestled in his palm until it felt like it was cutting into his skin, willing it to burn his flesh with Harry's answer, and thought that this was completely _typical_ of his life. _Other_ people had proper honeymoons. _Other _people did nothing more strenuous than reaching for more sun tan lotion on their honeymoons. _Other _people did _not_ spend their honeymoons running after dangerous criminals with their new bride in tow.

They skidded to a stop suddenly as Pattinson rounded the corner and Hermione tried to peer around the edge of the building she and Ron had stopped by. Ron gripped the top of her arm and pulled her roughly back.

"Are you mad?"

She levelled her eyes on his. "No, but if we lose them that's not going to help matters much, is it?"

"Maybe not," Ron told her, his eyes burning. "But if they catch you poking your head around the corner at them I think they might catch on pretty quickly, don't you?"

Point taken, Hermione moved away from the edge of the wall and screwed her eyes shut. Ron didn't need to ask what she was doing; he knew her _shut up and let me think_ expression far too well by now to be foolish enough to disturb her and so he contented himself with watching her, trying to swallow down the panic rising in his stomach and trying equally hard to fight the urge to shake her, because with every second she took to think, Pattinson and Scott were potentially getting away.

In the past few months, Pattinson in particular had shown a remarkable talent for self-preservation; it seemed that as fast as the Ministry ran and as hard as they fought, Pattinson always seemed to manage to dance through the cracks, thumbing his nose at them as he went. Ron had lost count of how many times he had pored over Pattinson's file, committing to memory the exact shape of his nose, the shade of his eyes, so that when he saw him again, he would be prepared; he would know what to do. He realised now, too late, that every time he had stared at Pattinson's laughing photograph he had only thought of him behind bars in Azkaban, or sprawled unconscious on the floor. He hadn't actually ever pictured how he would _get_ him there.

Hermione opened her eyes, and Ron took this to mean she had thought of something. He stared at her, his expectant expression slightly crazed with need.

"It's no good," she murmured, frowning slightly. She began to speak so quickly Ron could barely make out the distinct words, each of them melting almost seamlessly into the next. "I can't think of a single spell that would keep him in our line of sight without him detecting it. We're too public to use any kind of Disillusionment Charm and the only detection spell I can think of is Ostendo Presentia but that's to reveal people in a room, I doubt it'd work in the open, and I'm worried about using a spell in public, even a non-verbal one, but I can't see how we can keep just following him like this -"

"Hermione," Ron said, breaking in. "Stop worrying. Nothing's going to happen to us, okay? Harry's on his way; I know he is. We always keep the coins with us, so he'll definitely have felt it and you _know_ he wouldn't just leave us. And he'll send backup. All we need to do is make sure we don't lose Pattinson, okay? Without him seeing us, of course."

"Well, then, let's get moving or they'll get away."

Before Ron could protest Hermione peered cautiously around the corner once more: then, gripping his arm carefully she tugged him behind her, keeping low to the wall, her dark eyes keen as the two of them followed the two Darklings. Pattinson and Scott seemed as oblivious as ever; Pattinson's long dark-blonde ponytail swung behind him as they walked, contrasting with Scott's cropped dark hair, and neither of them looked back or broke their stride once. They continued down the high street, turning off into a residential road, speaking in rapid French to one another. As they walked up the drive of a little house, Hermione and Ron crouched behind the thick trunk of a tree to watch.

Pattinson pulled a set of keys from his pocket; they glinted silver in the sunlight. He riffled though them, selecting a long thin one, and glanced around carefully. Hermione held her breath as for a fraction of a second his dark eyes seemed to settle on her; they narrowed and his mouth pressed into a grim line before seeming to shake the thought away and twisting the key in the lock. He stepped neatly into the house, Scott following, and the door was closed silently.

Ron and Hermione waited. For several minutes nothing happened. Beside them an elderly cat crept out from beneath a car, its green eyes small and distrusting. It sniffed Ron disapprovingly; he batted at it with a hand and it ran, a low hiss rattling between its teeth. Hermione watched the exchange distractedly, her eyes fixed on the little house. It seemed like every nerve in her body had been lit; she felt hyper-aware of every single part of her, so that her skin seemed to fizz with unspent energy. It felt wrong to just be standing here, to be staking the house out and just waiting. The adrenaline in her veins was almost burning her with the need to _do _something, to do _anything_. Anything would have been better than this forced lethargy.

"Come on."

The words took her by surprise; they seemed to have tumbled from her lips without her even feeling them. Ron snapped his head around to face her, a questioning look in his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"If we just sit here doing nothing, it could be too late. We've got to do _something_."

"Hermione..."

She shook her head. "Don't bother, Ron. I'm going to find a way to get inside, whether you help me or not. Standing out here waiting for Harry's not going to get us anywhere."

Before Ron could protest she had stepped out from behind the tree, edging carefully across the road and trying to look as casual as possible. Hermione wasn't a natural at acting normal in a crisis; Ron could already see the way her hands were tightly laced into fists and he knew without looking that her nails would be carving half-moons into the skin on her palms. He followed her without thinking as she rounded the edge of the road and turned into the next street, quickening his pace so as to keep up with her own determined one.

"What are you _doing?"_

They were walking past a long row of darkly-varnished fences that enclosed the houses behind. Hermione paused and stood on her tiptoes to try to see over the edge of one, counting silently as she did so.

"I _think_ this is the right one."

"The right _what_?"

"The right garden."

Ron just stared at her. "Are you _completely_ mad?"

"No," Hermione replied coolly. "Just thinking, that's all."

"You can't seriously be suggesting that we climb over the fence and sit in their _garden_! You're meant to be the smart one! _I'm_ the one who's meant to come up with the stupid pla – _are you mad?!_"

He hissed the final three words as, apparently oblivious to his mini tirade, Hermione began to carefully scale the wooden fence, hauling herself over just as Ron came to his senses enough to try to make a grab for her foot.

"_Hermione? _Where are you? Are you okay? _Hermione!_" Ron's voice was strangled with worry; he pressed his ear frantically to the fence. The relief when she answered him was almost overwhelming; he felt light-headed.

"I'm fine, Ron. Hurry up and climb over, quickly – there's a pile of junk next to the fence, we can hide behind it while we work out what to do."

As she spoke there was a muted thud beside her; Ron landed less-than-gracefully and she immediately grabbed a fistful of his shirt and tugged him down towards her. He overbalanced slightly and landed awkwardly on top of her, so that she lay sprawled in the dirt behind the pile of old chairs and pieces of wood, Ron falling on top of her. He looked into her eyes and grinned without thinking.

"No offence, Hermione, but I'm not really in the mood."

"Oh, shut up, Ron." Hermione scowled at him as she tried to push him noiselessly off her. She pulled herself up into a sitting position. "We need to think."

Ron stared at her. "You mean you don't have a plan?"

"Not as such, no."

"_Not as such?_" Ron repeated the words incredulously. "You just made us climb into a Darkling's garden, we've got no backup yet, and you're telling me you didn't plan for after that? Are you _trying_ get us both killed, because so far you're doing a brilliant bloody job of it!"

"Yes, because you've never made things up as you went along before, have you, Ron?" Hermione whispered acidly. She looked up at the house, peeking as far over the top of the pile of discarded furniture as she dared. It looked no more menacing than any of the houses that surrounded it, with its whitewashed walls and high windows. "We need to get inside."

"No."

"No?"

"Exactly." Ron folded his arms. "No. You're being ridiculous, Hermione. We're not going anywhere near that house until we get some kind of reply from Harry."

"But -"

"Please, Hermione. Just do this one thing, for me. It's our honeymoon. Most people don't end up trying to persuade their wife not to commit suicide by carrying on with some mad plan."

Hermione tried to ignore the gentle note of pleading in his voice as she whispered back. "True, but most wives don't _need_ to think of a mad plan in the first place!" She sighed, resigned. "Look, I agree that perhaps we shouldn't try to get inside when the numbers don't work in our favour – I suppose they could have more inside, we could be hopelessly outnumbered for all we know. But what about some protection spells – would that be all right?"

Placated, Ron narrowed his eyes at her. "Protection spells?"

"Well, you know, things like Ostendo Presentia, so we can see how many of them there are and whereabouts they are in the house. And maybe a Disillusionment Charm for both of us so that if they look into the garden they won't see us. And maybe we could try a -"

"AAAARGH!"

Ron screamed suddenly as the coin in his pocket burned his flesh through the thin material of his shorts; he jumped up instinctively and plunged a hand in his pocket to pull out the Galleon, before realising his mistake in screaming and clamping a hand to his mouth, his eyes wide and fearful as they turned towards the house. He just had time to hiss "_Hide!"_ out of the corner of his mouth before there was a flash of light; his entire body locked rigidly into place and enraged voices could be heard in the garden.

Ron swayed awkwardly on the spot before toppling backwards, caught in the momentum of the binding spell that had hit him. Instinctively Hermione reached for her wand to perform the counter-spell but his eyes were full of a desperate pleading, and as the furious voices drew closer she kissed his face and pulled herself beneath the pile of junk, feverishly whispering, "I love you. I'll get help." as she tucked herself carefully out of sight and wishing desperately that she'd had time to Apparate away with him.

The owners of the voices had arrived now; Hermione didn't need to look to see that it was Jonas Scott and Finley Pattinson – she could have known by the simple way the air seemed to be charged all of a sudden, and she wished as hard as she could that she had never climbed into the garden; better, that she hadn't looked up at the wrong moment and seen them talking to the waitress. This was all her fault, and now they had Ron.

"I _knew_ it!" Scott crowed triumphantly. He bent down to lean over Ron, his blue eyes shining with malice. "I _told_ you the ginger one was following us, didn't I, Fin? But you wouldn't have it, would you?"

"Shut up, Jonas." Pattinson sounded bored. "Just get him inside the house, like we discussed – we'll decide what to do with him in there."

There was a sound of muffled footprints as Pattinson stepped lightly back across the grass, heading towards the house. Scott remained, grinning lopsidedly at Ron, whose frozen expression was now somehow twisted into an unmistakeable mask of pure rage at being incapacitated at a time he would dearly have loved to have had access to his wand, or even his fists.

"Ditched your little girlfriend, eh?" Scott continued. He licked his lips lasciviously. "Shame..."

Hermione curled herself into a tight ball, clutching her petrified heart and trying frantically to slow its erratic beating, sure that Scott would be able to hear its fracture pulse. She watched, terrified to breathe, as Scott pulled Ron into a standing position by the front of his shirt and began to drag him carelessly towards the house, taking her heart with him and laughing to himself as he did so.

~ * ~

Jonas Scott had one blue eye and one green eye. His teeth were another colour entirely, tarnishing whatever unorthodox handsomeness his unusual eyes might have afforded him. He smelt vaguely of petrol. And he did – not – stop – _talking. _

Mindlessly, Ron took all of this in as he was dragged bodily towards the house, even as he was trying to shut out the white noise that was Scott's constant malicious chuckling. It was all he could do; listening to it was only adding to the intense fury that was currently burning through his immobile limbs, and the frustration that he could do nothing about it yet. His mind was racing; it danced frantically around, jumping from subject to subject in split-seconds, so that trying to catch hold of a single thought was impossible. It rested briefly on the last image he had of Hermione's face, twisted in terror as she watched him be pulled away, and he felt sick. He winged a silent apology to her as they reached the house and Scott kicked open the back door, tugging him over the threshold and into a little kitchen.

The entire room was absolutely pristine. Long, white surfaces; chrome worktops with rows and rows of hanging stainless steel cooking utensils; pale yellow blinds hanging over a clutter-free windowsill. A silver percolator bubbled with dark coffee in the corner. It looked almost homely, reminding Ron with a painful stab of the kitchen at the Burrow. He wondered idly when he would next see it.

They rounded the corner and up a staircase, entering a brightly lit living room, painted a periwinkle blue and sparsely furnished. Finley Pattinson sat in a squashy white leather armchair in the far corner of the room, one long leg crossed carelessly over the other. He looked bored. His long blonde ponytail had been pulled loose, so that it fanned silkily across his bare shoulders, now that he had removed his shirt, trailing languidly across the planes of his chest. Hearing Ron and Scott come in, he laid aside the book he was casually flicking through and half-smiled without bothering to get up.

"You took your time, Jonas." The words were said without accusation; a simple statement.

Scott nodded erratically; it looked more like a tic than a response. He pushed Ron down onto the sofa, where he lay awkwardly, unable to move into any kind of sitting position due to the Body Bind he was under. Across the room, Pattinson leaned forward carefully in his seat, resting his forearms along his legs and templing his fingers. Ron could see the shape of the muscles in his shoulders as they hunched forward. His face creased into a gentle frown as he regarded Ron, as though trying to fathom him. He looked almost amused.

"You know, it's very rude to follow someone back to their home," he began sardonically. "Of course, it's far ruder to trespass in their home, too. The polite thing to do would have been trying the doorbell."

Scott snorted at this; Pattinson shot him a dark look and his sniggering ceased.

"But you're very fortunate. You see, I'm a reasonable man. And, until you showed up, I was in a good mood. I don't really want to ruin my holiday with some work. And I'm not really in the mood for anything long-winded. So I'm going to offer you a deal."

He stood up now, his lean muscles flexing, and stood in the centre of the room. He was close enough that Ron could see the day-old stubble on his chin, distorted slightly by the long scar on his face. In the left-hand pocket of his shorts Ron could see the tip of his wand poking out. Leaning over him, Pattinson reached out a hand and drew Ron towards him, so that their faces were mere inches apart, and he smiled, a dangerously calm smile, one that allowed Ron to see every single one of his gleaming white teeth. They looked like fangs. They looked perfectly capable of tearing his throat out.

When Pattinson spoke again, his voice was soft, so that Ron could feel his breath falling on his face in the shape of the words.

"You tell me everything I want to know – and I do mean _everything – _and I'll consider letting you go_."_ He smiled maliciously. "I'm sure I don't need to explain how option number two goes."

~ * ~

Hermione couldn't breathe.

It felt as though there was an immense weight pressing down upon her chest, so that every breath was ragged and painful; her head felt so packed with thoughts that it was impossible to distinguish one from the confused mass long enough to focus on it; it felt foggy. Her mind kept replaying the last image of Ron's face, snatching her breath painfully from her chest, so that she gasped with every fresh searing in her chest. She moved mechanically; the second the garden had fallen silent she was mobile, unfolding herself carefully from beneath the pile and sitting pathetically in the garden, numb with terror for Ron.

Peripherally she noticed a glimmer in the parched grass; seizing on any idea, any distraction, she reached over and curled her fingers around the now-cool metal of the treacherous coin that had revealed their position. It sat in her palm now, as harmless as any other coin. She ran a finger over the smooth edge and resisted the urge to fling it across the garden; she gripped it tightly in her fist and felt the rough side dig into her palm. She gasped suddenly, remembering, and flipped it over to read Harry's message.

_On my way – got backup – will track you – stay safe – H_

Hermione stared at the coin nestled in her palm, her mind working overtime. How would Harry know where they were? She couldn't risk anything – every wasted second was a second longer that Ron was inside that house with those awful men, a second longer that he was -

No.

It would do no good to anyone if she dwelt on it. The important thing was to _fix_ it. She would find a way through this for Ron and then she would spend a very long time making this up to him. There was no time to waste. Her decision made, Hermione sprang into action, pulling her wand smoothly from her shorts and tapping herself on the top of the head, thinking the incantation for a Disillusionment Charm as hard as she could. As the familiar cracked-egg feeling set in, she concentrated on staring at her palms until they seemed to disappear – all she could see was the shimmery outline of her fingers as she flexed them experimentally. Satisfied that Pattinson and Scott would not notice her, she stood carefully and began to climb as quickly back over the fence as possible, afraid of the noise Apparition would make.

Once back on the street she immediately began walking, fixed on her purpose, her stride unbroken as she turned the corner of the street. Reaching the edge she skidded to a halt and took out the coin once more, stroking her thumb across it and performing the non-verbal incantation that would send Harry a reply.

_In Rue de Loup* – come asap – Ron in trouble_

Crossing the road quickly she ducked behind a wall, making sure that she was out of public sight, and performed a frantic counter-spell for her Disillusionment Charm. She remained crouching for several moments, her whole body trembling with adrenaline, picking at a hangnail as she waited for some sign of help. Gradually the blurry outline of her fingers grew stronger and more defined; she tried not to bite her fingernails now that she could see them clearly.

A sudden loud crack made her whip her head up; peering carefully over the wall she squinted across the street. As she discerned the cause of the noise she scrambled to her feet, relief flooding her entire being. With a strangled cry, Hermione launched herself from behind the wall and within seconds her arms were wrapped tightly around her friend.

"Oh, Harry! I'm so glad you're here – they have Ron!"

The dry sobs in her throat were hurting; it felt like she couldn't breathe again. She concentrated on trying to pull the air through her lungs. The effort calmed her a little, though she could still taste the mild panic. Harry squeezed her tight and then pulled back; there were several more loud cracks as four more Aurors arrived, each of them wearing their ReflectoVests.

"Don't worry, Hermione; everything's going to be fine."

Sebastian Marianelli's cool, assured tones did nothing to calm Hermione's frazzled nerves, even coupled with his careful smile; she managed a weak smile in return, which she quickly offered around to the remaining three Aurors who stood around the three of them now as Harry introduced them quickly. "Hermione, this is Aeson Jones*, Alex Walsh and Keira Rudd." He narrowed his eyes as he focused them on Hermione's fearful brown ones. "Now, what's happened?"

Hermione's words came out in a desperate rush, her panic racing ahead of her; she knew she was gabbling and she didn't care. "Ron and I were trying to see if there was a way we could listen in on what they were up to, so we climbed into the garden but they heard us when the coin burned with your message and they caught Ron. He's inside the house with them now, Harry, we have to get him out, we have to -"

"Hermione, it's okay." Harry gripped her arms tightly and tried to calm her, looking into her eyes. "We'll fix this. I promise." He tried to make the words sound strong, and true, but it was hard to ignore the anxiety threading through his own voice at the thought of anything happening to Ron. He squeezed Hermione reassuringly a second time, and then pulled away, sliding seamlessly into 'Auror' mode. He spoke rapidly now, needing only details.

"How long ago did this happen?"

"About ten minutes ago," Hermione supplied instantly.

"How many - ?"

"Two – Pattinson and Scott, like Ron said. We've not seen any others. They used Body Bind on Ron and took him inside – it's number twenty-two, on the left, there's a huge tree opposite it."

Harry nodded once. "Right – Keira, Alex, I need a strong Containment Spell placed around the house so none of the other residents notice anything weird, a Muggle-Repelling Charm, and an anti-Apparition spell – seal both ends of the street. Add any other spells you think are necessary – you know what to do. And make sure you're not seen."

Keira nodded, her long blonde hair flying behind her as she and Alex sped off to perform the charms. Barely registering their absence, Harry turned his attention to the tall, feline-looking Aeson and Sebastian as the four of them followed Keira and Alex at a slower pace.

"Aeson, when Keira and Alex have finished placing the charms, I need you three to cause a diversion out front – we need to have Pattinson and Scott both looking out at you."

"Scott should be easy to deal with," Aeson replied, his voice surprisingly clear – or perhaps it was only surprising to Hermione because all sounds currently felt muffled, as though they were reaching her deep underwater, from far away. His grey eyes were bright but serious. "He's very excitable, and he'll be easily distracted. Pattinson might be more of a problem, but if there's three of us and only two of them, it shouldn't be too bad."

Harry smiled. "That's great, Aeson. Sebastian, Hermione, you two come with me – we'll go around the back and try to sneak in while the others are distracting them, and we'll try to get Ron out before they notice what's happening."

"What if they realise what's happening?" Hermione asked, the evil thoughts in her mind taking over her tongue. "I mean, surely they'll put two and two together – it'd be a bit of a coincidence for them to kidnap an Auror and then suddenly be attacked by Aurors ten minutes later, wouldn't it?"

Harry's face was solemn. "We'll deal with that when we come to it. But there are six of us and two of them – seven if you include Ron. And this might not be the best idea but it's the only one we have, and we don't have time to think of a better one." He turned to Aeson. "Ready?"

Aeson nodded. "What will your signal be?"

Harry smiled tightly. "We don't have time for one. Just start as soon as Keira and Alex are ready, and we'll do what we can from there. If you get into trouble, send up sparks."

"Sparks," Aeson repeated, nodding once more before sprinting gracefully towards his colleagues.

Left alone, Harry turned to Hermione and Sebastian. The tall American had slung an arm protectively across Hermione's shoulders, looking for all the world as if it belonged there. Hermione didn't seem to have noticed – she was currently chewing at her thumbnail, her fearful eyes wide and staring straight ahead, seeing nothing. Sensing Harry's gaze, Sebastian looked up and his handsome face split into a wide, incongruous grin.

"Ready, Harry?"

~ * ~

Ron's wrists and shoulder blades felt as though they were on fire.

Scott seemed to have gained perverse pleasure from the tightness of the binds he had magically placed around Ron's body as the Body-Bind spell had worn off, the thin cords cutting cruelly into Ron's flesh. He had long since given up hope of struggling free. His hands had been bound behind his back, pulling his shoulder blades further back than was remotely comfortable, so that the slightest movement sent spasms of pain racing down his spine.

Thus far, Pattinson had not removed his wand from the waistband of his shorts, though Ron was not optimistic enough to hope things would remain that way. It was more than he could have hoped for that he had remained relatively unharmed – strangely, Pattinson and Scott seemed content simply to leave him in suspense, bound tightly. Every so often, frantic giggles would escape from Scott's mouth; he had wrapped his arms around himself and sat staring absently out of the window, his eyes far away.

Pattinson was another matter entirely. He did not make a sound but sat perched on the edge of the pristine white armchair, resting his chin in the curve of his left palm. His dark eyes raked carefully over the length of Ron's body, slowly, as if trying to fathom him by breaking him down to the sum of his parts. He looked pensive, almost tranquil, which did nothing to calm Ron's fractured nerves.

The room was so deathly quiet that as Pattinson opened his mouth to speak Ron could clearly distinguish the sound his lips made as they parted.

"I don't understand you."

He said the words calmly, without inflection, as if merely voicing his thoughts. Ron did not answer, though he was now able to speak, unbound by any charm other than the magical rope that looped around his wrists and ankles. Pattinson's head snapped to Scott suddenly, as though he had heard him silently call his name. He spoke in rapid but brief French, the words melting into one another so quickly that even had Ron understood conversational French he would have had difficulty keeping up enough to translate. Scott answered him equally rapidly, though his tongue slipped clumsily around several words in stark comparison to Pattinson's fluid speech.

Pattinson sighed, the sudden hissing sound heavy in the tense air of the room. He stood up slowly, looking as though the move was carefully calculated before his muscles reacted, and stepped smoothly across the little room so that he stood, towering, over Ron.

"As I told you before," he said tersely, his dark eyes locking onto Ron's, pinning him with their gaze. "I'm a reasonable man. I've given you the opportunity to tell me, freely, who you are and what you're doing. You have rejected my offer. And, unfortunately for you, I can't just let you go without knowing who you are. It wouldn't work out well for me, you see.

"So, because I'm in a good mood, I'm going to give you one last chance. I'm going to ask you, one more time, to tell me who you are. And if you don't give me the answers I'm looking for, then I'll just have to get a bit more...persuasive, shall we say? So, do you want to do this the easy way, or the hard way? The choice, as they say, is yours entirely."

Ron's eyes narrowed and his jaw set firmly, making his lower lip jut out a little. He stared up at Pattinson with as much venom as he could muster, hoping desperately that he looked fearless and furious, hoping even more desperately that Pattinson could not smell fear. Because, if he could, Ron would positively reek of it right now. He wondered frantically where Harry was, if he had received his message. He hadn't had the chance to read the reply on his coin. He thought of Hermione once more and winced slightly as the fear and anxiety seemed to knock the breath from him.

Unfortunately for him, Pattinson seemed to take this as defiance, and with a frustrated snarl of impatience he pulled his wand from his shorts, pushing Ron's head back and placing the tip of his wand in the hollow directly beneath Ron's chin, so that it pushed into the flesh.

"Now," he growled. "I'm losing patience. Who are you working for?"

* * *

_**:Author's Notes:**_

_A couple of things – firstly, an enormous thank you to everyone who is still reading this; your kind comments really are appreciated, and if I could send you all a big cookie I would. _

_This chapter is split in half, but only because I realise how long I have left it between updates and I wanted to give you all something for your patience! But I promise that the next chapter will be just as long and will wrap up all the loose ends created by this one._

_Secondly, my sincere apologies for the enormous delay (and I know that it's huge) since the last update, but there are a few reasons for this. I wanted a clean-up, which I have now completed. I have also had a lot of personal things to work through – three weeks ago I had to have my dog put to sleep, which has set me back quite a lot, but I'm a coper and over-working is what fixes me best, which is why I've worked on this a lot. I'm also in my second year of university, which requires a LOT of reading as it's an English literature based course (which means a minimum of two fat new novels PER WEEK to be read and studied!) and I've had to work a lot of overtime as I'm saving to go travelling when I graduate, so I literally haven't had time. But my summer holiday starts in a couple of weeks, so my update regularity should improve!_

_So, as usual, below here are the explanations for some of the words/ideas etc. used in this chapter. As always, if there are any questions please feel free to PM me, and I'll answer whenever I can. _

_* Rue de Loup_ literally means 'Wolf Road' – not terribly interesting, but apart from meerkats wolves are my favourite animal and I love the French for 'wolf'. And although I do know the French for 'meerkat', and although I'm making up all the streets in Nice, I thought _Rue de Suricate_ might be a bit of a stretch!

_*Aeson_ is a Greek name, and is pronounced EE-son. In Greek mythology, Aeson was a Thessalian prince and the father of Jason, the hero who led the Argonauts in the search of the Golden Fleece. In extreme old age, Aeson was transformed into a young man by the sorceress Medea. Not that any of that is relevant to the character, but as I've said before, I'm a name collector and I loved this one.


	20. A Rather Interesting Rainbow

_**:Very Quick Author's Request:**_

I've been getting a lot of emails lately saying I've been added to Author Alert, or my story has been Favourited or put on Alert. And very few of the people adding me, or my story, have bothered to review my work. This isn't me fishing for reviews: it's just a request that, if you like my story, or my writing, enough to add me to Alert or Favourite, then please take the time to tell me why, or what about it you enjoyed. It takes only a minute to do, which is a LOT less than the time I spend writing and working on my stories, and it's very disheartening to see that 200 people have your story on Favourite and only 6 have bothered to review!

Thanks.

* * *

_**~ Chapter Twenty – A Rather Interesting Rainbow ~**_

A very wet liquid was slowly dripping down the side of Ron's face, and judging by its stickiness he guessed it was blood. He swore he could smell it: the rust and the salt, the torn fragments of skin. It trickled from just beneath his left eye and he held his breath, waiting for the cut to start stinging once the shock of the injury wore off. His eyes remained fixed on the reason for the long, newly-carved gash beneath his eye: Pattinson remained staring levelly at his captive, his wand held carefully positioned so that Ron could see it clearly.

"Why do you persist on making life so _difficult_?"

Pattinson said the words without inflection, exactly the same way he had spoken for the entire time Ron had spent in his company. Even when he had grown tired of Ron's terrified but resolute silence and had slashed his wand viciously across his face to create the cut that bled now he had not so much as grunted in exertion. The spell had been cast silently: Ron had no doubt that it was a magical wound that would require some kind of counter charm or potion to heal. The jagged tissue of his skin was stinging now that the shock of its being split open had worn away, but the sting was different than anything he had ever felt before: it carried with it a strange kind of burning that Ron knew would only intensify as time passed by.

He stared up at Pattinson, his jaw clamped tightly shut, determined to give nothing away. He tried to show nothing in his eyes: not defiance, not supplication, and certainly not fear. He wondered frantically whether Hermione was okay, if she was safe, and tried to calm himself before the terror that she wasn't caused him to start shaking once again. He wasn't sure if Pattinson or Scott knew he hadn't been alone in the garden: thus far neither of them had mentioned Hermione, and Ron was determined that things would remain that way.

A low snickering noise in the corner snared Ron's attention: he slid his eyes to the left to see Scott sitting on the windowsill, hugging his knees to his body and staring out of the window with a smile on his face, showing his discoloured teeth. His mismatched eyes were wide and vacant and he appeared to be in a world entirely of his own. Pattinson ignored him completely, apparently too used to his strange little idiosyncrasies to care. He cleared his throat and Ron's eyes snapped back to his.

"It's obvious you're with the Ministry of Magic. You'd have no reason to follow me, otherwise, and you were definitely following. Not very well, of course, but that's not the point. That ridiculous hair of yours really is a give-away, especially on a day as beautiful as this." Ron didn't answer. Pattinson seemed to be thinking aloud. "I thought they trained Aurors better than that. And you clearly don't have back-up, or they'd have stormed in by now." He grinned, his face handsome with it. "Very poor planning, I'd say. No tact whatsoever. Now, your name, please."

Ron bit down the smile that bubbled on his lips at the fake politeness of Pattinson's final statement. It seemed ridiculous that Ron was bound to a chair, a prisoner in a tiny French house, with two well-known Darklings, and with a deep cut trickling blood down his face, and yet Pattinson was still bothering with niceties. Particularly when he considered the fact that Pattinson's asking for his name was not a request in any way.

"Your name." Pattinson repeated, his impatience adding feeling behind his words for once. It wasn't a question, and when Ron only narrowed his eyes in response, Pattinson's lips pressed into a thin line. He raised his wand once again and slashed viciously across Ron's right arm, sighing lightly in an almost bored manner as he did so. Ron screamed in pain as the familiar burning sensation intensified, searing the flesh on his arm, the shock not enough to mask the pain. Pattinson shot out a hand, wrapping his fingers around the wound and pressing tightly, so that it felt like red-hot darts were shooting up the length of Ron's arm, making him gasp with the pain of it. He didn't dare to look down but he could feel that the wound extended from his shoulder to just above the crook of his elbow. He couldn't tell how deep it was. Judging purely from the feeling of fire raking across his skin, it went down to the bone.

"Your name!" As Pattinson spat the words at Ron he clamped his fingers more tightly around Ron's arm, forcing the torn flesh together. Ron felt the scream tumbling from his lips before he had a chance to stop it, and he tried to close his mouth to stop the answers Pattinson sought from tumbling out after it, but the longer he held his silence the harder Pattinson squeezed and the fiercer the fire raged beneath his skin. "Answer me!"

Uncurling his fingers from around Ron's arm, Pattinson instead drew back an angry fist and hurled it carefully at Ron's face, a frustrated snarl ripping from his throat as he did so. The crunch as the bones of his nose slid apart from one another, crashing into the muscle around it, was sickening, and Ron knew instantly that it was broken, even without the fountain of blood that now gushed from it or the ragged screech of agony that left him.

"Final chance," Pattinson whispered, his eyes hard. "Give me your name."

"We – Wea -" Ron gasped, tasting the bitterness of the blood that was filling his mouth and fighting the urge to gag. He grimaced as the feeling of moving his mouth sent fresh spasms of pain shooting across his face and lifted his eyes to Pattinson's once more, determined now that he would not get the answers he sought. "Wheble."

Pattinson's eyes narrowed. "Wheble? Wheble what?"

"R – R – Riley." The lie slid smoothly from his tongue even as his breath came in ragged gasps from the pain. He fought the urge to spit the blood from his mouth, feeling it would not go down well with Pattinson _or_ Scott.

"Riley Wheble." Pattinson threw his next words over his shoulder, his gaze never leaving Ron's face. "Jonas – do you recall a Wheble at all in your checks?"

Scott slid carefully off the windowsill and came, frowning, to stand behind Pattinson. "No." he said. He moved closer to Ron so as to peer at his face, trying to see it more clearly through the blood. He reached forward to cup Ron's chin, curling his long fingers around it. He turned Ron's face from side to side, surprisingly gently, his stare intensifying with each passing second. "Looks familiar," he murmured after a while. "But the name doesn't ring any bells."

"A fake?" Pattinson stepped back from Ron to say the words to Scott now: the two of them were speaking in low voices now, clearly debating amongst themselves.

"Most likely," replied Scott. "Hardly going to give us his real name, is he?"

"You don't think it's a double bluff?"

Scott shook his head: their conversation dipped so low that Ron gave up trying to trace the shapes of the individual words in the low hum. He cast his eyes as inconspicuously around the room as he could, fighting against his better instincts to ignore the fire raging across his arm and his face even as it seared beneath his skin, fiercer than the bite of the cord that bound his wrists together. He rubbed his wrists together as best he could, trying to attract no attention and wondering if he would be able to work his hands free. He wished his wandless spellwork was better: Hermione would have been able to work herself loose and Stupefied the two of them within thirty seconds flat. He allowed the briefest of half-smiles to crack the mask of worry and pain on his face as the image of Hermione's disapproving scholarly face floated across his mind's eye, free of the anxiety of the moment.

Unfortunately for Ron, Hermione's face had also chosen that precise moment to flit across the surface of Jonas Scott's memory, and with a triumphant snarl he scuttled over to his captive, smiling in that feral way of his once more.

"You had a girl with you, didn't you, Wheble?" he smiled, his voice thick with smug satisfaction. "Where'd she go, eh?"

Ron's eyes hardened, the cool blue turning to resolute steel: his mouth and jaw set firmly beneath the slow trickle of blood that bathed them, and Scott's grin only widened at this display of defiance. He stepped back from Ron, twirling his wand absently between his long fingers, and his voice now took on a musical quality, its every note resonating with triumph.

"Don't you remember a girl, Fin? I do, now that I think of it." He glanced over at Pattinson, whose blank face revealed nothing of his thoughts or mood as he leant his back against the far wall, his arms folded and his eyes fixed upon Ron's face, searching for traces of the lie he knew was hidden in the folds of his frown. Scott wasn't finished: his earlier verbal diarrhoea was quickly resurfacing. "Pretty little thing, wasn't she? _Veeeery_ pretty. Much too good-looking for the likes of _you_, eh? Got to be a Love Potion of some sort, wasn't it? Or is it your sparkling personality that won her over? Didn't think someone like that'd like the gingers, but you live and you learn, don't you? Then again, she ran off pretty quick, didn't she? Must have a brain in her head. So I can't see why you're protecting her, really, 'cause she's not come back for you, has she, eh? Where's your little girlfriend now, eh? Shacking up with your best friend, no doubt, pretty thing like that, not even thinking about the stupid git she's left behind -"

"Shut up." Ron tried to bite down on the words even as they exited his mouth, but closing his teeth against them was not enough: they slid through all the more ferociously, propelled by the hatred that now filled his eyes as he stared at Scott, the bait finally taken.

Scott only giggled to himself. He placed a hand to his mouth in mock mortification. "Oh dear. Have I hit a nerve? My _silly_ mouth." He moved over to the window, his eyes fixed on Ron. "Still, maybe I'm wrong, right? Maybe she's planning on swooping in here after all, eh? Maybe she's not already somewhere, having fun doing your best friend -"

"SHUT UP!"

"Why don't you?" Scott laughed, his wand whipping out before Ron had time to blink and crying out the words to his spell in the space between heartbeats. "_Cretulos_!"

The scream of rage that bubbled in Ron's chest was thrown uselessly against his lips: he fought uselessly to set it loose, hurling insult after insult at Scott, but every word simply bounced back in his mouth, as though something was stopping them from tumbling out. He tried to pull his hands to his mouth, to feel the space where his lips used to be, to tear apart the skin he could feel papering over the gap, but every tug at his bindings sent fresh pain cracking down the length of his spine, making him sweat with the exertion. The sense of futility at being unable to tell Scott to shut up, to order him to stop laughing and filling the room with such filthy lies, to beat him to a senseless, bloody pulp even though his fists were fizzing with the need to hit the man, was overwhelming: he felt sure that if he couldn't force the words through his mouth they might break through his chest. And all the time, Scott's laugh grew more raucous and more gleeful, even as Ron's fury threatened to crack him in two, until the only thing that made sense was to hurl himself forward across the tiny room, aiming squarely for Scott and hoping vainly against hope that somehow his bindings would snap from the pure force of his will.

He was half-successful: Scott, somehow, hadn't been expecting Ron to project himself at him, and the tiny space meant that Ron sent himself crashing against the startled Darkling, shoving him up against the wall. However, the sudden momentum of his running coupled with the weight of the chair he was tied to meant that he quickly lost his balance, falling forward and hitting his face hard against the floorboards, unable to splay his hands in front of him for support. He winced as the wood peeled the skin back from his cheeks, his sealed mouth muffling the scream of pain that he longed to let out.

Ron didn't know what happened next, or whether it was a good thing or something to worry about. All he knew was that the sky outside had exploded bright crimson, he couldn't get up because of the pain in his back and his face, and suddenly everyone in the world seemed to be shouting out.

~ * ~

At the front of the house, sealed from Muggle eyes in their protective bubble, the three Aurors were firing as many non-lethal spells at the house as they could. The Stupefying and Body-Bind charms ricocheted carefully off the windows and bricks, all three of them avoiding any spell that might harm Ron if it hit him instead of the Darklings inside. As Pattinson realised what was happening, green jets of light began to shoot out of the upper window, scorching the grass that had been beneath the feet of Keira or Aeson only moments before.

Meanwhile, the cries and shouts, coupled with the hiss of spells missing their targets and the crack of spells striking true, did very little for Hermione's already fraught nerves as she crouched in the back garden once again, Harry and Sebastian flanking her. Several minutes had crept by, tortuously slow, in which all they could so was keep watching the house, unable to make a movement until they were absolutely sure that the attention of Scott, Pattinson and any other Darkling was fully on Keira, Alex and Aeson. Hermione, for the most part, whispered constantly beneath her breath, bargaining with herself for Ron's safety, promising anything and everything if it could only mean that he wasn't hurt. Harry's whisper a few minutes later seemed to reach her from far, far away: she tried to use his words as a ladder to climb back down to the present moment.

"All the shouts and cries seem to be coming from over there," he whispered. "Come on: we'll break in through the kitchen window. I've tried unlocking the back door and no spell I know seems to work. Sebastian, can you use a Silent Breaking Charm so there's no sound?"

There was a muffled cracking noise as Sebastian complied and the shards of what had once been a smooth plane of glass floated gently down to rest on the grass in the garden: the three of them pulled themselves carefully through the window, Hermione climbing through after Harry, grateful beyond words or sense for his presence. The kitchen was small but tidy, and Hermione quickly pointed her wand to the ceiling, wasting no time.

"_Ostendo Presentia._" Within seconds the familiar paint-spatter footprints began to appear, as though someone had danced their steps onto on the ceiling. She could make out three distinct sets: two moved frantically around, circling the same small space, corresponding to the crashing noises of their movements, and the three of them assumed that these could only belong to Scott and Pattinson. The final pair of footprints was stationary: they remained in the centre of the room, unmoving, and Hermione felt her heart simultaneously leap and sicken at the sight – they must have been Ron's, which meant he was only metres away, but his lack of movement sent ice water racing through her veins. That couldn't be good.

"Perfect," Sebastian muttered beneath his breath, staring at the ceiling. At a nod from Harry they began to creep slowly towards the staircase. Hermione could taste the fear in the breath she held in her mouth, and she gripped Harry's arm for support, squeezing it gently so as to have some kind of physical anchor to the world. The stairs were the longest she thought she had ever climbed: she was painfully aware of every creak they made and tried to bite down on the accompanying squeak that left her lips at every fresh noise they made and every new scream from upstairs: any of them and all of them could have been Ron's, and not knowing was destroying her.

The door at the top of the stairs was ajar: through the crack, Harry and Hermione could see the indistinct shapes crashing around inside. The shouts and cries from the battle were intensifying: Keira, Aeson and Alex seemed to be doing well. Harry pressed himself as silently to the crack in the door as he could, crouching low with his back against the wall and craning his head around to peer through.

"I can see Ron," he whispered after a couple of minutes. His voice was low, the words barely supported by his exhalation of breath, but the hope in them made them lighter. He held up a hand to stop Hermione from rushing forward at the sound of the sweetest four words she thought she had ever heard in her life: she bobbed uselessly on the balls of her feet, crouched as she was, suddenly full of nervous energy.

"Where is he? Is he okay?" Hermione curled her fingers into her palms, pressing her nails as deeply into the soft flesh as she could stand and concentrating on the sharp jolts of pain so that full control of her words and actions still belonged to her.

"I can't see his face," Harry whispered quickly, not taking his eyes off the room. "He's near the door but he's tied to a chair: his back's to me." He shifted his weight slightly so as to achieve a better look of the room. "Scott and Pattinson are both at the window – looks like Aeson and the others are keeping them busy. I'm going in: I'm going to try and get him out without being noticed but if I am then obviously I need you and Sebastian to cover me."

"Aren't we going to fight them?"

"We need to, eventually, yes, but the most important thing is to get Ron out safely. The whole time he's a hostage, he's in danger. Are you ready?"

"Ready," Hermione replied, feeling less ready than she'd ever felt before. She gripped her wand tightly, not taking her eyes off Harry as he pulled his Invisibility Cloak out of his pocket. "How did – an Undetectable Extension Charm?"

Harry grinned tightly. "I learned from the best," he said, and then his smile disappeared as he pulled the Cloak over himself. He had pressed the flat of his hand against the door, feeling the wood beneath his fingers when Hermione leant forward.

_"_Wait. _Muffliato,"_ she whispered, pointing her wand at the door. "The hinges shouldn't creak now."

"Thanks."

Harry pushed carefully on the door: sure enough, it glided smoothly and silently open and he slipped through, moving as slowly as he could. Hermione heard the faint _swoosh_ of his Cloak moving around him as he crept over to where Ron lay, still bound to the chair, discarded and forgotten momentarily as Scott and Pattinson duelled furiously with the three Aurors outside.

"Ron." Ron lay facing the wall, his back to Harry. At the sound of Harry's whisper, his eyes snapped open: he tried to crane his head around to locate the source of the sudden noise. Seeing nothing, he closed his eyes once again. The whisper came again, more feverish this time, accompanied by the sudden weight of what could only be a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Ron, it's me. Harry. I'm under my Cloak. Can you hear me?"

As subtly as he could, Ron slowly moved his head up and down, signalling a yes.

"Are you hurt?"

Another slow yes. Hermione could see him moving and wished with all her heart she could hear what was being said. Harry crawled around the length of the chair, trying to get face to face with Ron, and whispering words of what he hoped would be comfort as he went.

"I've got a couple of Aurors outside keeping those two distracted, and I've been in touch with the French Ministry, they know what's going on; they're sending some of their best. It's going to be okay, we're going to get you out, okay? Hermione's safe, she's with me."

Ron's body visibly sagged at these final five words, as if the weight of his relief had sapped whatever remaining energy he had. He fought so hard to smile it felt as though the lower half of his face would crack in two. Harry by now had reached the front, and as he carefully tilted Ron's head so that he could see his face, the sight of what Scott's spell had done sent him instinctively recoiling. The sound of his horrified body crunching against the wall was loud enough to attract Pattinson's attention: with a snarl of rage he turned to where Ron lay, searching furiously for the source of the noise. Beneath the scar that cupped his face lay a fresh new line of sliced flesh: the hair on one side of his head was singed from a barely-ducked spell, and the fury that emanated from him was nearly tangible in its strength.

He stepped towards Ron, and Harry shrank back against the wall, his wand gripped in his palm ready to hex Pattinson. Hermione was similarly armed: her own wand was held outstretched and the words to her Stupefying Spell lay ready on her tongue, but with a muted cry both were knocked from her as Sebastian inexplicably barrelled up the staircase, hurling himself through the room with a strangled shout and tripping over himself. His heel caught the edge of Harry's Cloak, tugging it from him and revealing his entire body.

Without thinking, Harry aimed his wand squarely at Pattinson, shouting the first hex he could think of. "_Incarcerous!" _Thin, snakelike cords shot from his wand and missed Pattinson by inches as he dodged instinctively. He slashed his wand at Ron once more: the blood from this new wound seeped through the back of Ron's shirt, and though he had no mouth with which to speak Harry could tell he would be crying out in agony. His spell landed, Pattinson's features twisted into a savage mask of fury and malice as he lunged towards Ron and Harry. Harry's lightning-fast Disarming spell whipped his wand across the room to land in his outstretched palm. Undeterred, Pattinson stepped towards the two of them but Hermione's cry of "_Depulso!" _sent him careening away from his intended target and slamming into the wall.

"Hermione, get Ron and go!" Harry cried, ducking a Killing Curse aimed at him by Scott, who had torn his attention away from the window. Harry threw his arm in the direction of the window and fired red sparks, a signal to the Aurors outside that help was needed, and scrambling to his feet just as Pattinson tried to do the same.

Hermione flew into auto-pilot: elbowing Sebastian, who was sitting uselessly on the floor with his back pressed against the wall, out of the way she rushed to Ron's side, pulling at the ropes that tied his wrists together and helping him as gently as she could out of the chair. She screamed at the sight of his face: the entire lower part of it was sealed over, the skin smooth where his mouth had once been, entirely incongruous to the sheer happiness his eyes contained at the sight of her.

Hermione pinched her lips shut, sealing the remainder of the scream of horror at his poor face and concentrated on pulling the ropes from him and helping him carefully to his feet. He gripped her hand and she tried to pull him out of the room, frantically trying to think of a possible counter-spell to the hex placed on him, but he pulled his arm back, trying to indicate with a shake of his head that he wanted to fight.

"Ron, you're hurt, I don't have any Dittany or anything, and we can't Apparate out, we have to get you out of here!"

Ron wasn't listening: he hugged her to his chest, holding her as tightly as he could, and then he turned to Harry, who, understanding immediately, threw Pattinson's wand to him: he caught it one-handedly and lifted it towards Scott, thinking the Body-Bind Spell as hard as he could. To his intense surprise, it worked: Scott fell paralysed to the floor.

"Ron, that's _enough!_"

Hermione grabbed his uninjured arm and pulled with all her strength, not stopping until she'd got him across the landing and inside a small bathroom, the staircase being blocked by the three Aurors and several other wizards Hermione assumed were part of the French Ministry as they rushed up to the little room.

"Stop trying to play the hero. You can help Harry when you're fixed." She pushed him down on the lid of the toilet and pulled out her wand once more. "Now, hold still: I'm going to try a Healing Charm. Where are you hurt worst?"

Not taking his eyes off her, Ron lifted his arms, indicating the wound across his back, beneath his eye, down the length of his arm, and finally traced his fingers lightly across the skin covering his mouth. Hermione pressed her wand gently over his wounds, muttering constantly beneath her breath as she did so and waiting to see the fabric of his skin knitting itself back together. Nothing happened, and Hermione tried again, saying the words louder, more clearly, the fear and worry in her voice cracking the words in awkward places so that the syllables didn't quite flow.

Ron took her hands gently in his, taking the wand from them and laying it beside him. His eyes were softer than she had ever seen them, and she could tell by their warmth that he was trying to smile. He shook his head slowly, trying to convey without words that no spell she knew would make any difference. Hermione scowled disapprovingly at him and flicked her wand so that long white bandages shot from the end of it. She began carefully wrapping them around his arm, trying to contain as much of the blood as she could.

"Of course, I should have known they wouldn't show the slightest mercy. Lift your arms as high as you can – at the very least I can try bandaging you up until we can get you to a hospi - SEBASTIAN!"

Ron jumped at her sudden cry and looked around to see the disgraced Auror standing on the landing, apparently trying to negotiate his way down the stairs, ignoring the shouts and cries from inside the room he had just crept out of: Pattinson was clearly giving the Aurors the fight of his life, however vain the attempt may have been. At the sound of Hermione's cry he, too, jumped: Ron could see the fear on his face as she took away his last chance at escaping and pulled him roughly into the little bathroom. He let out a yelp of shock at the sight of Ron's face.

"What the f-"

"Pattinson did it to him," Hermione said quickly by way of explanation, placing a hand on each of his arms and shaking him slightly. "Sebastian, you trained as a Healer originally, didn't you? Before you became an Auror?"

The fear in Sebastian's eyes quickly dissolved into pure terror, though Hermione didn't seem to notice: Ron almost laughed at the deliciousness of the moment, which was improved exponentially when he began stammering, his eyes wide and constantly darting around the room, clearly searching for a new exit. "Er. ..uh....that's not...I mean...yeah, but – I can't -"

"Perfect." Hermione's voice was brusque and business-like now that an answer seemed in sight. "I need your help – they've used some kind of Dark magic on him and I don't know any spells that can fix it. Do you know anything that could stop the bleeding?"

"Uh...I...I, um – I don't really – I mean, I've not – it's been a long...well, I..." He was stuttering at top-speed now. Ron was almost impressed.

"It's a simple question, Sebastian, do you know anything that can help or not?" Hermione's irritation with him was stretching her nerves thinner and thinner: Ron began counting the seconds until she finally broke, knowing she would, oddly pleased that the target of her unbridled fury would undoubtedly be Sebastian. "I don't exactly have time to stand around chatting about it. And, seeing as it's _your_ fault he got attacked again, it's the least you can do to help him now."

Sebastian's strong jawline moved uselessly as he groped towards an answer to her: quailing slightly beneath the intense scrutiny of her gaze he only nodded, a lump forming in his throat as he reached for his wand.

"S-sure," he said, lifting his wand and running a nervous hand through his already-tousled hair. "Turn him around a little so I can see his back."

As gently as she could, Hermione turned Ron slightly and peeled his shirt from his back, revealing a six-inch slash down the length of his back that shone bright red and dark black from fresh flowing and dried-on blood. Sebastian lifted a shaking hand and flicked it quickly, mumbling the words to an incantation Hermione had never heard before. For a brief moment, it looked like the spell had been a success: the blood seemed to stop flowing, and Sebastian's whole body seemed to sag with relief.

Then, even through his closed-up mouth, Ron's muffled scream of agony seemed to rip the air in two as a fountain of blood seemed to pour from the wound in his back, now an inch longer than previously.

"_RON!" _Hermione's scream was one of terror though it was only marginally less filled with pain than Ron's. As he lurched forward, his body weakened from the intensity of the pain, she rushed forward and caught him in her arms. She laid him carefully on the floor, crying his name over and over, smoothing the hair from his face, and pulled out her wand, pointing it directly at his heart. "It'll be okay, Ron, I promise you. I'm going to make it stop hurting, okay? I love you." She pressed a kiss to his forehead and muttered the words to her spell, so that his eyelids fluttered and closed and his head slumped forward onto his chest, his bewitched sleep deep enough that he could manage to look peaceful.

"Oh my – Hermione, I am so sorry, I haven't done that spell in a really long time."

Sebastian's voice sliced through Hermione's brain, setting every single nerve ending aflame. She felt as though her heart might burst in her chest, and as she settled Ron lovingly on the floor and stood slowly up, she felt the breath in her body collecting, her chest rising and falling heavily from the exertion of her rage.

"What did you do to him?" Speaking politely had never cost her so much in her life.

"I used a Healing Spell, but like I said, I haven't done it in ages, it didn't go right -"

Hermione's laugh was not a laugh in any traditional sense. It was broken: it was full of anger and hatred and derision, and it hit Sebastian like a blade, square in his chest.

"It didn't go right? Did you actually just tell me that it didn't go right?"

Sebastian nodded once. "Yeah."

Everything seemed to slow right down in that moment, so that Hermione could feel the fabric of every single second as it slipped around their bodies then. She was grateful for this, because as she curled her fingers into a fist and slammed it squarely into the absurdly handsome American's face, she could hear the soft thud of flesh crashing into flesh, and right then it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. This was not close to when she had punched Draco Malfoy: this was beautiful, this was perfection. Over and over again her fists met Sebastian's body, landing viciously wherever she could reach, and though he made no move to strike her back his limbs flailed as he tried to grab her fists and halt her attack.

"This is all your fault!" she screamed as she pummelled his body. "We nearly had him out, he was nearly safe, and YOU ruined everything, YOU showed them where he was! You didn't even stick around to help them FIGHT, you cowardly bastard, and now you've made everything TEN TIMES WORSE and you're not even bloody SORRY! What the HELL is wrong with you?!"

"Hermione -"

"You think you're so fantastic and you're not! You're a FRAUD! I bet you weren't even a Healer, were you? WERE YOU?"

"Hermione, that's enough!"

This time the voice registered as not belonging to Sebastian. Hermione paused in her actions, noting with satisfaction the split lip Sebastian now wore, to see Harry standing in the doorway, looking tired but pleased. There was a cut to the side of his face but the blood that had leaked from it was dry and streaky. Behind him, Keira, Aeson, Alex and two French Aurors were transporting a magically bound Pattinson and Scott, their unconscious heads lolling unpleasantly, down the stairs.

"What the hell is going on?" Harry asked.

"_He_ -" Hermione spat, her breaths painful and ragged as she pointed derisively at Sebastian, "tried to use his Healing "skills" to fix Ron's injuries, but all he did was make things even worse than he already had."

Harry's eyes narrowed and hardened as he took in Ron's form on the floor. He flicked his eyes up to Sebastian. "What did you do?"

"He tried to use a healing spell, he says, but Ron's wound just got bigger. The pain was so bad I had to put him to sleep until I can get him some _proper_ medical treatment."

"Is that where you've been this whole time, Marianelli?" Harry's voice was clipped. He gripped his wand tighter. "Is it? Where were you before you crashed into the room? You knew we had to keep quiet: you knew what we were doing, and you still put all of our lives in danger. Why?"

Sebastian's voice was very quiet as he spoke: he kept his eyes focussed on the floor and refused to meet either Hermione or Harry's gaze.

"I was downstairs," he murmured. "I heard some noises in the next room: I thought it was another Darkling. I was by myself down there. I panicked."

"So, what you think you just explained to me," Harry began, rubbing his temple tiredly, " is that you left us a man down, jeopardised the lives of at least six people, and nearly got Ron killed, because you were _hiding downstairs and got scared_? Is that right?"

Sebastian said nothing.

"Is this something you do a lot, Marianelli?" Harry asked, barely keeping control of his own temper. He was astonished Hermione was managing to control hers. "Is that where you were last summer, when all those Muggles died and we arrested Logan O'Connell? Is it? And before that, when Jackson White got away and those two witches had to be admitted to St. Mungo's because of it? Have you ever actually _fought_ like the rest of us?"

The slow shake of his head took only moments, though it seemed to take longer, such was the weight of his shame at being caught out.

"_Coward_," Hermione spat.

She shot a fist out one last time: it connected with the side of his face with a sickening crunch and he crumpled to the floor, howling in pain. Hermione stepped lightly over him and flicked her wand at Ron, so that his body hovered in mid-air. She floated him past Harry and readied herself to take him downstairs and out of the house into some space where she could Apparate him to the nearest magical hospital.

"Keep him away from me from now on, Harry," she said as she passed her friend. Her voice was shaking almost as much as her hands from the force of her anger. "I can't guarantee his safety if you don't."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Again, my apologies for the delay. I've been doing a lot of writing lately - including the new chapters of my stories, **My** and **A Boy Who Loves You**, not to mention the new chapter of my non-FF novel, so have been very busy! Also, I didn't want to upload the chapter until I had finished it properly and all was revealed. Sebastian's nature will be explained a little more in later chapters but he won't be appearing very much after this chapter. I hope this was enjoyable and worth the wait!

A quick note: _Cretulos_ is the amalgamation of the Latin _cretula, _meaning 'clay for sealing', and _os_, meaning 'mouth', to form a spell that would seal the mouth over, like Keanu Reeves in _The Matrix_ or Ryan Reynolds in _Wolverine, _(which is actually one of my more ridiculous phobias – it really freaks me out to see nothing but smooth skin where a mouth should be!)


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